Magic, Obviously
by cutting love
Summary: Sherlock at Hogwarts- Triwizard Tournament- Will include as many Sherlock characters as I can work in- Vague spoilers for Season 3- ENJOY!
1. On the Hogwarts Express

"It feels so strange." Greg mused, stepping onto the train. "This is the last time, Myc. This is it. Our last express ride to the castle."

"Perhaps you should enjoy it in silence?" Mycroft teased, barely managing to turn his smile into a smirk.

"Shut up and come in here," Greg laughed, turning to grab Mycroft's tie and led him into an empty compartment. A wolf whistle sounded behind them, and Mycroft turned flamingly red while Greg gave a jaunty wave to Anthea, who was lounging against the frame of the next compartment, taking advantage of the final minutes she'd be able to use her muggle cellphone before the magical interference made the thing fritz. She was smiling over the top of it, and gave an exaggerated saucy wink when she saw Greg looking.

"Bet they were hell all summer, eh Sherlock?" She laughed as Sherlock contorted his face.

"You've no idea." He followed the pair into their compartment, Phillip Anderson tagging behind him.

"Hey, Greg, I have a couple of questions for you," He smiled over-excitedly at the older boy. "I was watching a quidditch game with my mum over the summer, and I wondered if you could teach me-"

"Shut up, Anderson, I need to focus." Sherlock pressed his hands to his temples. His palms were slick with sweat, but he had to do this. He'd needed it all summer. Mycroft and Gregory laughing together had been nearly unendurable without John by his side to do the same. Sherlock hated that John had been drug to Scotland to see his aunt, but seeing what it was like to spend time without him for the first time in nearly six years, Sherlock felt much more ready to go after what he really wanted. He'd promised himself that he would walk right up to John and without so much as a word kiss that sodding Gryffindor.

"Oi, Sherlock, watch it." Greg admonished Sherlock quickly, waving Anderson into the compartment. "No reason to be even more rude than usual, just because you're nervous about-"

"Yes, thank you Greg, that will do. Why don't you snog my brother if you're so eager to find something to do with your insufferable mouth." Sherlock snapped, spinning a full tight circle before pushing his face to the glass to watch the comings and goings of the other Hogwarts students. They looked happy. Chattering and laughing. Martin from Gryffindor had dyed his hair in an attempt to look more like the latest pop star, who himself was only imitating the Weird Sisters. Katie the Slytherin had lost her baby fat and gained herself a boyfriend- which wouldn't last, not if she kept sending him Howlers pertaining to various parts of his anatomy. Cherry of Ravenclaw had a hole in the bottom of her trainers where her limp had gotten worse- pity, that, the Healers didn't know what to make of it. Sherlock considered it part of the third year's odd charm.

"Perhaps it would be most effective to be outside of the compartment, dear brother. At least until the train begins to move. You do have prefect duties to attend to," Mycroft sniffed pretentiously. Sherlock's eyebrows rose and fell rapidly in mild consternation, subject to the same raw nervous energy that was making him blink fifteen percent more rapidly than usual and his long fingers tap against his own temples. He bit back his immediate retort- everything that sprung to mind was unnecessarily hurtful considering how much of an effort Mycroft had made to be sympathetic all summer.

"Maybe I will, just to get away from you." He sneered. "Put your robes on, brother, and go be Head Boy somewhere else." With that he slid the compartment door open and stepped out, closing it behind him with a snap.

At his emergence into the hallway, students began leaning toward the other side. Sherlock had a reputation for being frigid enough to make you think a Dementor attack was imminent. One person, however, was utterly immune, bounding up to Sherlock like a perfect, tanned, humanized golden retriever. "Hey, Sherlock! How were the holidays without me, then? Your brother not too insufferable?" John Watson smiled hugely, and Sherlock's pulse beat so fast and loud he would have sworn everyone could hear it.

He struggled to step forward. His plan was rapidly failing him; he hadn't counted on being surprised. John hadn't been intended to have time to start a conversation. He cleared his throat and struggled to speak while re-memorizing each line of his best friend's face. "It was less than adequate. Your presence is- uh-"

For the first time in memory, he was glad to be interrupted, when Anderson slid the door open behind him and cleared his throat loudly to make Sherlock move. "D'you mind, mate? Only Molly Hooper just went by."

"Of course, of course." Sherlock stepped to the side. "Er- John- would you like to join our compartment?"

"Obviously, yeah. Don't you have prefect stuff to go do, though?" He grabbed the door just before it closed, stepping in.

"Not until-" the train jerked into motion. "Yes. I do. I should change. He slid back inside, studiously ignoring Mycroft's high and mighty face with his pursed lips and arched eyebrows, eyes pointedly darting back and forth between Sherlock and John. Greg lightly smacked Mycroft in the stomach in admonishment, mouthing "bad luck" to Sherlock, who gave a jerk of his head and left John with Greg as he and Mycroft went off to perform their obligations to the school.

By the time they returned, John and Greg had been joined by Anthea, who was laughing about Quidditch, debating hotly with Greg over who would be in the World Cup next summer. Sherlock quietly slid into the seat next to a blandly smiling John, sitting as close as he dared. Mycroft, on the other hand, paraded to Greg's side and made to sit down, until Greg grabbed his hand and pulled him into his lap.

"How were Head Boy duties, then?"

"Do you realize how undignified this is?" Mycroft was looking scandalized and mildly uncomfortable, and he tried to get off of Greg's lap as quickly as he could. "Greg, please, I'm too-"

"Yeah, do _you_ realize you just ignored a direct opportunity to boast about your status as Head Boy?" Greg was nonchalant as Mycroft wriggled halfheartedly, ending up looking like a dying fish as he tried to escape politely but quickly from Lestrade's grasp.

"Oh, not this again, we've already agreed it should have been you but it is me, and that's that. I'd much prefer to work behind the scenes, but the Headmistress has seen fit to gift me with… legwork."

Greg chuckled happily at the discomfort on Mycroft's face, dumping him unceremoniously into the seat beside him. John laughed. Sherlock looked toward him at the sound he'd been missing all summer. His eyes looked shuttered, but he looked back at Sherlock and smiled. Sherlock smiled back, and John's hand wandered over to cover his. Sherlock froze and looked to Greg, who shrugged as if to say 'I didn't mention anything, don't look at me.'

Sherlock cautiously turned his hand over to hold John's. "Mycroft, I've been hearing about a competition this year. Something more intense than quidditch. Any news?"

"Nothing I am at liberty to share with you, Sherlock," Mycroft's voice was light enough that it wasn't a snub, though neither was it an invitation for continued discussion.

"Fine, be like that. Not as if I care about sodding sports anyway." Sherlock nervously puffed out his breath. He felt like he was trembling harder than a wand connected to its twin core. "What classes have you got, Anthea?" He was grasping at straws, trying to ignore John's thumb skimming the back of his hand even though that was the only thing his mind would consent to fix on.

"You know, the same. Muggle studies, arithmancy, potions, transfiguration, ancient ruins, charms." She shrugged.

No convenient cover in the way of conversation there then, either. Sherlock switched his gaze back to John, timidly searching his face. Oddly blank. His hands weren't shaking, not like you'd expect when first holding hands with your crush. Either Gryffindors were brave _and _icy at heart, or something was wrong. "…John?"

"Jim wants to see you, Sherlock. Two compartments down."

Sherlock rose cautiously. "Be right back."

John followed him into the hallway, still holding his hand. He ran his free hand down Sherlock's spine, making the Ravenclaw shiver and jump.

He arrived at the compartment Jim was sharing with Irene, Moran, and Janine. He slid it open without waiting for them to notice him.

"Oh, hiiii," Jim smiled, voice lilting across the short greeting. "Found my little present?"

"What the hell, Jim."

"Aw, Sherlock, don't you like him?" Moriarty's voice cascaded down the scale, starting off high and playful, dipping to dangerous depths and returning to his normal flat accent. "I thought you might enjoy getting what you wanted for once." He bounced his wand on his knee.

"I love you, Sherlock." John squeezed the hand he was holding and Sherlock turned, speechless. He knew it was a bad idea to leave his back to Moriarty and Moran, but he just had to look and make sure it was really John there.

"I…" He spun angrily. "Jim. What did you do."

"What would you like me to make him say next?" He gave a little jerk of his yew wand and John's arms encircled Sherlock's waist.

"Don't you love me too?"

"I- _John_- Stop it, Jim!" His left hand folded protectively over John's hands, his right holding his wand steady, pointing at Jim. He suddenly felt a wreck, and tried to keep his face from showing it, congratulating himself that his wand arm at least was steady.

"Go on Jim, drop it, it isn't funny anymore if he really cries. Look at those baby blue eyes. How can you hurt those." Irene leaned forward, one elbow resting on her knee, that same hand resting against her face with her bright green pinky nail between her teeth. Janine tapped her own wand on the seat behind Irene, smirking at Sherlock and making red and gold sparks dance around the compartment.

Moran laughed at these, swatting them away. "Yeah, enough. I don't want my team captain in bad shape, Jim."

Jim sighed. "Fine. But I _owe_ you, Sherlock. You've been very rude, not wanting to… play. Purebloods ought to stick together, you know. This is our year, Sherlock." He gave his wand a careless twist and John slumped against Sherlock, who staggered forward. He pulled John's arm over his shoulders and began backing out of the compartment.

"I'll bear that in mind." He sneered to Jim, flicking his eyes at everyone else in the compartment. "Imperio, wasn't it?"

Jim grinned a huge, slightly imbalanced smile. "Very good, ten points to Ravenclaw. Wasn't it fun to have what you want? Imagine if it was real." He flicked his wand and the door slid shut, making Sherlock stumble back. Well. _That was certainly an eventful beginning to the year_, Sherlock thought as he tried not to replay what had just happened.

_I love you, Sherlock. I love you, Sherlock._

"What happened?" Greg asked, leaning forward in concern when Sherlock slid their compartment door back open and set John carefully in his seat. The blond began to stir.

"Moriarty thought he'd have a little fun." Sherlock said bitterly. _I love you, Sherlock._

"Your eyes are all red. Might want to fix that." Anthea observed.

"I know a charm," Mycroft leaned forward, drawing his wand from his pocket. John was just rubbing his eyes as Sherlock felt his own clear and dry. He nodded his thanks.

"John, are you all right?"

"Yeah, must have dozed off, sorry." He smiled brightly at Sherlock. "Done with your prefect duties then?"

Sherlock cast a dismayed look at Mycroft. _What should I tell him?_ Mycroft shrugged, considering what he might do to Jim. Or rather, what accident might befall him. What sort of unsavory task could suddenly become the sole responsibility of the male Slytherin prefect. Mycroft did the only thing he could think of to give his little brother some modicum of privacy, turning to Greg and engaging him in conversation about the announcement he'd been specially confided as Head Boy, teasing the Hufflepuff quidditch captain without mercy. Anthea laughed, casting sidelong looks at John and Sherlock.

"Yes, I am. John, I missed you this summer." There, he'd said it.

John looked startled. "I missed you too," He smiled, looking like a human embodiment of a beam of sunshine_. I love you, Sherlock. _"Mycroft wasn't _too_ miserable to be around, was he?"

"More unbearable than usual, without you." Sherlock wanted to lean forward, into John's personal space, make completely sure he was okay after having been Imperioused, say a proper hello after spending all summer apart.

"I'm back now though," John grinned and shifted away. Sherlock jerked his spine straight in response, curling his hands under his legs. He drew his legs to his chest, trapping his hands under his knees. "We'll be at Hogwarts soon,"

"Yes. I expect so." He looked out the compartment door, just for somewhere to look that wasn't at John. Moriarty was standing in the hallway. He flicked his wand casually. An invitation. Sherlock shook his head. Jim pouted, then wagged his wand at John as if to say 'I can do it again.' Sherlock sighed and uncurled himself.

Greg looked around. "Where you off to, mate?"

"Jim would like a word." Sherlock didn't wait for a reply, sliding the compartment door open and closed again in nearly the same motion. "What is it, Jim?"

"Come now, Sherlock, let's not play anymore." The shorter brunet drawled imperiously, shifting his weight carelessly in time to the swaying of the train.

"I thought you were upset at me for not playing?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows, doing his best to seem nonchalant despite the anger boiling through him.

"Now, now. You know there's a big to-do at the castle this year." Jim strolled closer, seeming to be relaxed. To Sherlock it looked more like a tiger padding towards its prey.

Sherlock shrugged. One heard these things. "Of course."

"Well, not to ruin the surprise," His voice went unexpectedly sing-song over the word 'surprise,' "But there's going to be a ball." He smiled happily, dangerously. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"And?"

"We should go, Sherlock. Me and you."

"And why would we do that, Jim?"

"Because we're just alike, you and I. Purebloods. Clever. Bored. Think of the _fun_, Sherlock. We'd have such _fun_." He was standing almost offensively close now, but Sherlock wouldn't step back. In fact, he was inclining slowly forward, daring Moriarty to come closer. In retrospect, he probably should have known better. The Irish boy was definitely imbalanced, possibly to the point of psychopathy. To dare him was less a challenge than an offer. "Come on, gorgeous." Jim smiled manically, inches from Sherlock's face. _What the hell_, Sherlock thought. _Could be fun. Anything for a bloody distraction._ He leaned in, recalling a muggle film mummy had made him and Mycroft watch in the name of enlightenment. 'You go ninety, they go ten.' He stopped just short of a kiss. Just to see what would happen. His pulse jumped rapidly. This was dangerous, mad, and a little bit beautiful. Sherlock was angry, he didn't know whether he wanted to punch Jim or push him against a wall and kiss him, Jim was crazy; the combined tensions ran high and there was complete silence besides the clicking of the train across the track. Jim's eyes flicked to Sherlock's mouth. His hand started to rise to Sherlock's face.

"Sherlock!" John's voice interrupted the otherwise-intense moment. Sherlock leapt away from Jim as though a bomb had gone off between them.

"Yes?" He tried not to feel guilty. John didn't think of him this way, John didn't want him, John had absolutely no reason to give two rats who Sherlock kissed.

"Get back in here." John's commanding, icy tones left Sherlock little choice, and he retreated almost automatically to John's side. Mycroft was watching him calculatingly, Greg looked a tiny bit horrified, and Anthea was predictably indifferent, though she did seem amused.

He looked back at Jim, who wasn't smiling anymore. "Kiss you later,"

Jim grimaced. "No you won't."

He wandered off, and John stepped back into the compartment, slamming the door shut. "What the ruddy hell were you thinking, Sherlock? That bastard just Imperioused me!"

Sherlock's face drained of blood. "You remember that?" _I love you, Sherlock_.

John hesitated. "No- Mycroft told me."

"It was immediately obvious, the glazed eyes. He held your hand. Most uncharacteristic." Mycroft waved away the deduction.

Sherlock blushed furiously, eyes downcast, and Mycroft realized that he'd injured his younger brother's feelings, but didn't dare apologize in front of John- who wasn't really as stupid as he seemed to want people to believe. "I know."

"You know?! And you were about to kiss him? What in the name of Merlin's pants were you thinking?" John demanded loudly. Sherlock shrank down into his seat.

_That you wouldn't care. That you don't like me. 'I love you, Sherlock.'_ "I wasn't." He drew his knees to his chest once more. "Drop it."

"I will not! He used an _Unforgivable curse _on me, Sherlock, your _best friend_! Are you not even a little upset?"

Sherlock felt himself tearing up again under John's onslaught. _No, _he told himself_, this is weakness. Caring is not an advantage. Push it down, push it down. Don't look at him. Do not cry over this, Sherlock Holmes. _He sat silently.

"John," Greg's voice gently broke the awkward, heavy silence while Sherlock shredded his bottom lip between his teeth and tried not to breathe too loudly. He was reciting spellwork in his head, starting from first year, trying to calm down and think rationally. _Swish and flick_, he told himself. _Wingardium Leviosa_. Greg's voice dropped as though Sherlock couldn't hear him if he whispered. "Come on mate, look at him. He's shaken."

Good old Greg Lestrade, man of the people. Always rooting for the underdog. Knew there was an upside to Mycroft dating the biggest pretty-boy at school.

John deflated a little. He wouldn't look at Sherlock, though. "So, Mycroft, what exactly is this big event you're so happy to hold over all our heads?"

"John, please, as if it's difficult to hold anything over your head." Mycroft rolled his eyes. Greg exploded into laughter.

"Right, yeah, hilarious. Short jokes. Real comedy gold." John rejoined sarcastically, but he did smile a bit, all the tension of a moment ago gone.


	2. At the Start-of-Term Banquet

The Great Hall had never seemed larger.

Sherlock shut his eyes and dropped his head into his hands as everyone else ate. He imagined he could hear every fork scrape every plate, and each goblet being set on the four heavy tables. He himself wasn't eating, as usual when his mind was occupied.

"How do you manage this?" Mycroft ducked his head and muttered to him.

Sherlock blinked and looked around, answering in low tones. "Manage what?"

Mycroft waved toward his empty plate. "You're thinking. Yet you don't eat a thing. You're not even tempted. How?" He looked enviously at his younger brother.

"I was born to self-destruct." Sherlock laughed self-depreciatingly. "Honestly, Mycroft. I just can't. I'm trying to figure out what I'm supposed to say that will make this okay, how to make John not hate me. It happens whenever I have a puzzle; even thinking of eating puts me off."

"Hm." Mycroft chewed his lip.

"Stop that, you'll taste like blood." Sherlock dropped his head onto his arms, pushing his plate away.

"Better than tasting like cake," Mycroft answered ruefully.

"Mycroft, if you want food then eat. That's how this works." Sherlock's tone made it clear that he thought his brother was being ridiculous.

"Perhaps for you," Mycroft hissed.

"Let me know how that works out when you're Minister of Magic and you refuse to eat just to impress your idiot boyfriend."

"Gregory is _not_ an idiot."

"No," Sherlock agreed, though anyone who could miss the fact that Mycroft had insecurities the size of the Astronomy Tower frankly couldn't be _that_ clever. He was eager to end the conversation and put all his attention back on repairing his relationship with John.

Claim that Moriarty Imperiused him as well, plead shock for the unfortunate aftermath

Apologize and assure John that he'd never considered Moriarty's offer seriously, then apologize again.

Remind John that it was Sherlock who got Jim to lift the curse (sort of, no need to mention Irene or Moran ) and hope that he forgot about the near-kissing

Kiss John over and over while begging for forgiveness and hope that it was given

That last one was Sherlock's favorite, though of course it would probably only result in John becoming more distant and possibly angrier.

"Mycroft?"

"Expecting my help?"

"Hoping for it," Sherlock bit his lip and smiled crookedly at his brother, gathering his shoulders to make himself appear smaller and widening his eyes to enhance the impression of youth.

Mycroft sighed. "Fine, if I may ask for yours in return?"

Sherlock relaxed into his normal posture and nodded. "Of course."

"Apologize, tell him the truth, apologize again, do not reveal your feelings as of yet. John is not interested in dating those he pities, and telling him of your… affections at the present will seem like an underhanded tactic to gain sympathy and forgiveness." Mycroft turned a fork over and over, glaring at its every angle.

Sherlock dropped his head on the table with a bang, causing the first-year girl on his other side to jump. She moved away slowly, and Sherlock heard someone explain the Holmes brothers to her. He smirked tiredly to himself. The Ice Man and the Virgin. No one seemed to know which nickname referred to which brother. "I knew it wasn't going to be the option I liked," He hauled himself off the table, propping his head in his hands again and murmuring to Mycroft. "What sort of help would you like from me?"

"It's... delicate."

"You want me to spy on Greg for a while." Sherlock whispered and nearly smiled.

"Nothing so crude." Mycroft breathed back. "I'd appreciate it if you observed his behavior, particularly around the girls, especially the friends of Molly Hooper's."

"The ones who've followed him since fifth year."

"The same." Mycroft looked guilty and uncomfortable. Sherlock bumped his brother's knee with his own.

"No problem, Mycroft. I'll let you know." He managed a proper smile. "Eat your dinner, for god's sake. You're going to drive me mad with this diet of yours."

Mycroft glared, but only for a moment, and as Sherlock stood silently he saw his brother choose a plate of food. He rolled his eyes and slouched back from the Ravenclaw table. Glancing back at the Gryffindor table, he saw that John was studiously ignoring the Ravenclaws, sitting with his back to them and laughing with the girl across from him. Sarah, Sherlock thought her name was. He did his best not to despise her. He fixed his eyes on the Slytherin table, between the Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. Ah, perfect. Sally Donovan was sitting across from Moriarty, whose back was directly to Molly Hooper and two of her friends, who were engaged across the table in conversation with Greg. Sherlock moved as unobtrusively as possible between the tables, lowering his head beside Sally's. "Hello then, enjoy your holidays?"

"Morgana's tits!" Sally jumped, surprised. "Freak! When will you learn to make a little noise before you say something? Cough, clear your throat, scuff your shoe, anything. Just give me some warning, please," She shook her head, hitting Sherlock gently in the face with her tight curls. He cast his eyes at Jim, who tilted his eyebrows dramatically in response. Sherlock smiled. At least Jim understood how it was to be unnaturally good at something other people despised him for. Sherlock looked over Jim's shoulder, watching Lestrade's face. He was conversing politely- such a damned gentleman, friendly, honest, Hufflepuff all the way- but Sherlock could tell he was uninterested. He kept looking up, toward the Ravenclaw table, tapping his fingers restlessly whenever the girls were talking. He smiled but it was nothing at all like the smile Sherlock had been seeing on his face all summer, directed at the elder Holmes brother. "… and of course he breaks up with me just before term starts, but then I guess Hufflepuffs and Slytherins aren't exactly known for getting on, but then maybe it's just me." Sally shrugged.

"Too bad, that. Tell me if you need him cursed, there's nothing I'd like better." Sherlock raised his eyebrows in his version of Mycroft's smug expression. Jim smirked back.

"Don't think I can fight my own battles, then?" Sally bristled.

"Nothing of the sort, Sally, merely looking for a good excuse to hit Anderson with _langlock_," Sherlock answered, and Jim laughed. Suddenly the food disappeared from the plates in front of them, and Sherlock took his cue to hurry back to his own table for the Headmistress' speech. He jumped neatly over the bench, landing in his seat with his long legs stretched beneath the table.

"Well?"

"Trust me, Mycroft, he's not interested. They're showing no signs of letting up, but he doesn't care at all. He was hardly listening, kept looking over here." Sherlock glanced over his shoulder to see John looking back. He smiled apologetically, mouthed "I'm sorry." John rolled his eyes and turned away. Sherlock's smile disappeared immediately, lips folding into his mouth.

Headmistress Hudson stood up. "Hello, dears." She clapped her hands together once to get their attention.

"Spent the summer in Miami," Sherlock whispered to Mycroft, trying to begin a game of deduction.

"Hush, brother mine. You'll want to hear this."

"Now that you've all eaten- and can you imagine how horrid it would be if I spoke before you'd gotten food?" She paused, giving a good-natured smile as faint laughter answered to her statement, including a hearty chuckle from Deputy Headmaster Mike Stamford, whom Sherlock took the opportunity to wave perfunctorily at. "I've got a little something I'd like to share with you all," The Hall fell silent again, and Sherlock glanced at Mycroft, who nodded meaningfully toward the Headmistress. "Let's start with the bad news. Quidditch will be a much shorter season this year," She waited out the groans. "But rest assured, the sport will continue, and a Quidditch cup will be awarded. On to the real excitement; this year at Hogwarts, we will be welcoming some guests." Muttering spread across the tables, shrugged shoulders responding to low-voiced queries. "Perhaps some of you have heard before of the Triwizard Tournament?" Headmistress Hudson smiled broadly, and the volume and energy of the students multiplied.

"For those who have not, it is a competition put on between three schools; Beauxbatons, Durmstrang, and Hogwarts. These three schools of magic take it in turns to host a delegation from the other two schools, from whom champions are selected. These champions must be of age, as per the standards set down by the Department of International Cooperation and the Department of Magical Games and Sports at the Ministry of Magic. The three champions will be selected by an impartial judge, incapable of submitting to magical trickery, so don't try," She wagged her finger at the assembled students, eyes twinkling in the direction of the Gryffindor table. Sherlock got the impression that she was looking at John and snorted. He would be the one. "They will compete in a series of three Tasks, set anew for each Tournament, and the winning student will this year receive one thousand galleons, and of course pride for their school." She had to pause again to allow for the outburst of chatter following the announcement of the prize. "I think I ought to warn you now, the Tournament was discontinued some time ago because of some nasty deaths, and while there are new rules in place and guidelines that will be followed, it is still dangerous. I really must caution you all against submitting your name lightly.

"The delegations from the other schools will be arriving mid-October, there will be a welcome feast at which time those who wish to compete may submit their names for consideration, and at the Halloween Feast the three Champions will be announced. I trust that while we have guests, you will all be on your best behavior and give the best impression possible of Hogwarts." She smiled brightly. "Well, I think that's all you need to know for now! Off to bed, class tomorrow!" She waved them off, and with much scraping and banging, the benches were pushed back as students stood and made their way toward their separate dorms.

Sherlock hurried to find John. He caught up to the Gyffindor just beyond the doors to the Great Hall. "John!" He seized the shorter boy's arm. "I'm sorry, John, so sorry. Please, forgive me."

"For letting Moriarty Imperius me, or for nearly snogging him even though you knew he'd done it?" John snorted.

"I didn't _let_ him do anything, I was gone! He must've Imperiused you on his way back to his own compartment after attending to his duties as prefect. And I wasn't _really_ going to snog him, I just wanted to test him." Sherlock snapped his mouth shut, composing himself and disciplining his facial expression. "I was angry, I acted rashly. I'm sorry."

John stared at him for a moment. Sherlock Holmes, really properly apologizing. "Yeah, okay. Walk me to the dorms?" He invited with a smile, and Sherlock fell into step beside him with relief. "How were your holidays, then?"

"Tragically dull, without you. How was your aunt in Scotland?"

"You remembered!" John glanced up at him with a quick smile. "She was fine, you know. Family." He shrugged. "It could've been worse. Harry was there, of course, she knew about this Triwizard thing and kept mocking me and commenting what a great year was coming up and how exciting I'd find it. Do you think you'll enter?"

"I'm sixteen until after Halloween," Sherlock reminded him gloomily.

"D'you think I ought to give it a go?"

"I'd prefer you didn't, obviously." Sherlock stuck his hands in his pockets.

John looked up at him as they began to climb the steps. "What? Why?"

"Don't forget to hop the vanishing one," Sherlock reminded him, and John jumped over the stair that liked to disappear. "It's dangerous, I wouldn't want you to be hurt. Besides, who would I mock the whole proceeding with?" He smiled sideways, even though he really _was_ concerned that John would put his name in and get himself hurt. Sherlock wasn't sure he could sit in the stands and watch John risk his life.

"Fair enough. I'll think about it. What about Mycroft, do you think he'd try?" John smiled.

"All the legwork it would involve? Are you kidding?" Sherlock made a face at John, and was rewarded with a laugh.

"Well, what about Greg then?"

Sherlock considered for a moment. "He might. Might get it, too, depending on what this impartial judge is looking for. He's good, Greg. Maybe not incredibly clever, but he's got reflexes, and he knows his charms work."

"He's got heart," John agreed. "Brave too, dating your brother," John winked and Sherlock laughed. "He'd be great. I could really get behind this idea; Greg Lestrade, Hogwarts Champion. Can you picture it?"

"It would be better than having Jim or Irene get it," Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

"Yeah. Call me stereotypical, but I don't want a Slytherin Champion. They'd never quit gloating."

"Greg Lestrade it is then, hypothetically. If he even puts his name in." They reached the Gryffindor common room.

"Well, goodnight." John turned to the portrait.

"John…" Sherlock reached for him but thought better of it at the last second as the Gryffindor turned inquisitively back to him. "I- uh- I really am sorry. For earlier, on the train. And," He glanced down at his shoes, then looked back up shyly. "I missed you over the summer."

"Yeah, mate, same here." John wrinkled his eyebrows and smiled, confused but pleased.

"Well, goodnight, then, I suppose…" Sherlock turned away.

"Hey, Sherlock,"

"Yes?" He eagerly turned back.

John cleared his throat awkwardly, standing straighter, pulling himself into a line. "Was there… did you… was there something else you wanted to say?"

"I just wanted…" Sherlock didn't know how to phrase it now. He shook his head. "Goodnight, John." He turned and left.


	3. Quidditch Match: Hufflepuff v Slytherin

"Morning, Jim," Irene padded into the Slytherin common room in one of Moran's shirts. She'd nicked it from his drawer yesterday after they'd had double herbology, but let Jim think she'd grabbed it after a _really_ wild couple of hours. It was much funnier to watch his hands clench and hear his voice slip around dangerously.

"Irene," He looked up from where he was reclining on the leather sofa, stretching out the 'N' and second 'E' in her name, smiling hugely. In the lake- filtered light of their common room, it looked more like he was baring his teeth at her. In fact, he probably was.

"Ready for the game today?" She let her hair down, feeling the soft waves drift around her face and down her back. She could practically see Jim furiously comparing the two of them. He'd find himself wanting, if she had anything to say about it, perching on an armchair and drawing her legs up to show them off.

"The game. Not the _great_ game." Jim sighed. He called the final game of the season the great game, because that was when he got to finally play as well as he could against an opponent who might actually be worth his time. Playing against Hufflepuff always bored him. Led by beater Gregory Lestrade, the team wasn't terrible, but neither were they good enough to keep up with him. Besides, they'd long ago accepted that Hufflepuff never won the quidditch cup, and they played for the love of the sport. Last year, Jim had been beaten by Sherlock, and the year before that John Watson had brought Gryffindor to victory. He was the best chaser they'd seen in a long while. Jim was determined to win the cup this year, however, and as such he was watching closely for opportunities to sabotage the Gryffindor team. The Ravenclaws wouldn't be a problem; Jim was confident that he'd be dating Sherlock Holmes within the month, regardless of Sherlock's attachment to John or his own attachment to Seb.

Irene laughed at him, flipping her chocolate-colored hair over her shoulders to show off the vial of memories she kept around her neck to remind everyone exactly how much she knew about them. And also show off her breasts, of course- it wouldn't do to let Jim forget that Sebastian was primarily attracted to women, one of which Jim was most certainly not. She tugged at the top of her stocking.

"Love those on you," Janine yawned, coming into the common room behind her.

"Mm, thank you," Irene turned with a smile, sliding her feet to the floor so she could walk lightly to where Janine stood. Jim wasn't the only one with someone now and sights on someone else. "Best of luck in the match today," She leaned close to Janine, nearly kissing the other girl's cheek before drawing back and returning to her dormitory to change into her own uniform.

"Hey, John?" Sebastian yawned hugely, rolling over and falling out of bed. He caught himself, barely managing to turn his clumsiness into an awesome way out of bed. Good start to the day.

"Yeah?" John Watson rubbed his eyes, pushing back the curtains of his four-poster.

"Have you seen my other shirt? Looked for it last night, couldn't find it."

"No, sorry mate. Maybe you tossed it in the laundry?"

"Yeah, maybe." Seb shrugged. "Doesn't matter. Finish your charms essay?"

John snorted derisively, beginning to look around for his clothes. "Without Sherlock? You're joking."

"Fair enough." Sebastian laughed. "Hey, game today, right?"

"Oh, yeah! I wonder who Sarah's going for…"

"Come on John, straight and narrow girl like her, she's rooting for Hufflepuff. We're Gryffindors, remember, we're not supposed to get on with the Slytherins."

"Never said I did," John chucked a pillow at Sebastian. "Just because you do…" He yawned again, cutting off his own sentence. "Hey, Seb, d'you know what you call a Ravenclaw getting an F on an exam?"

"A fluke."

John shook his head. "You could say it's so unlikely as to be… _riddikulus_." He delivered his punch line with an overdramatic facial spasm, looking thrilled by his own wit.

Sebastian groaned. "Come on, John, that was way worse than the one about the pixie and the Veela. You're slipping."

"Am not!" John replied. "Come on, what about yours the other day with the unicorn? You have to admit, that was pretty bad,"

Moran had stopped paying attention to the discussion of puns. "I bet Irene took it." He and John had been throwing terrible puns back and forth at each other since first year, but he'd only recently managed to enlist Irene's help in playing with Jim. He'd had very nearly enough of the reverse.

"Sorry?" John ran a hand through his short blond hair, making it stick up.

"My shirt, I bet Irene took it."

"When was _she_ up here?" John asked, surprised. He located his jumper crammed under his bed.

"When we were getting Jim jealous for shits," Moran smiled. John wondered again whether he wasn't in the wrong house.

"Mycroft," Sherlock descended the stairs into the common room and nodded to his brother, both of them already cleaned up and neatly dressed.

The elder Holmes uncrossed his legs, standing with a slight bounce. "Good morning Sherlock. I was waiting for you; I have a request,"

Sherlock inclined his head. "I'm listening," He climbed up on an armchair to retrieve his potions book from where he had left it the night before atop a bookshelf. It had disagreed with him, so he'd temporarily banished it from his possessions.

"I've got to patrol the corridors this morning before the match and shepherd the younger students down to the pitch." He grimaced. Legwork.

"Triple request; wish Greg luck, deliver a message, save you a seat up front," Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Consider it done. If you see John Watson sneaking off with a girl, give him detention."

Mycroft smirked. "But of course, brother mine." He tossed a book to Sherlock, who caught it reflexively.

"Poetry, Mycroft? Really?"

"Message for Gregory. Just hand it to him, try not to sneer."

Sherlock turned the book over. "_Centaur Burnings and Goblin Riots; a Look at What History Doesn't Want You to Know_." He rolled his eyes. "A charming volume to inscribe with, what," He looked at the side of Mycroft's right hand, lifting his brother's arm by the sleeve. "a haiku?"

Mycroft pulled his arm back, quirking his eyebrows at Sherlock in a superior fashion.

"History is cool/ study up Greg, and maybe/ I will sleep with you," Sherlock mocked, inventing a horrid parody of a haiku. His brother flushed red.

"Hardly anything so pedestrian," He maintained his superior expression easily, despite his blush.

Sherlock changed the topic abruptly as they left the common room. "Can you believe the way Professor Dimmock holds his wand for Shielding charms?" He asked for the fifty-third time since the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher had joined the staff in Sherlock's fourth year. Mycroft never answered, merely smirked pompously.

"Game day!" Anderson shouted, flinging a pillow at Greg, who came awake with a snort as it hit him in the face.

"Humm?" He rubbed his eyes, sitting up and grabbing the pillow.

"Game day!" Anderson repeated. "Pillow fight!" He leapt at Greg, who defended himself clumsily, laughing.

"If you drop the quaffle again, you're in for it!" he exclaimed, landing a blow to Anderson's shoulder that knocked him back and gave Greg a little more room to maneuver.

"Ooh, I'm terrified," He smacked Greg around the head with a soft pillow that made a sort of 'whomp' sound. "What're you going to do, sick the Holmes brothers on me?"

"Yeah, maybe I will, thought of that?" Greg leapt up and grinned, discarding the pillow and getting Anderson in a friendly headlock, messing his hair.

"Alright, alright, I give!" Anderson laughed and Greg released him, bending to pick up his fallen weapon and return it to the bed, only to be struck in the rear by Anderson, who was a more cunning strategist than Greg had given him credit for.

"Oh, you-" He spun and delivered a center blow to Anderson, who staggered back with a shout of laughter, right into fifth year keeper Sebastian Wilkes, who'd opened the door to summon them to breakfast with the team.

"Greg, a gift," Sherlock's pale hand materialized in front of his face, holding a book. "Best of luck; Mycroft will be down as soon as his Head Boy duties are completed."

"Thanks, Sherlock," He took the book with a smile over his shoulder at the lanky Ravenclaw, who nodded and returned to his own table. He usually ate alone if Mycroft was occupied, but today Anthea sat beside him and they discussed the upcoming Triwizard Tournament. Janine detoured on her way into the hall to ruffle Sherlock's hair, and he leaned back into her even while looking smugly superior. He said something Greg didn't hear, and Anthea laughed, Janine dropping his head and giving his shoulder a teasing slap. Greg shook his head good-humoredly. For someone who claimed to have no interest in anyone- besides maybe John Watson- Sherlock sure seemed to enjoy attention.

He tucked Mycroft's gift into his book bag for later investigation and returned to his breakfast, teasing Anderson about dropping the quaffle in what amounted to Hufflepuff's big game last year against Slytherin, and gave encouragement and bolstering advice to the youngest member of his team, a third-year named Archie who made an excellent Seeker. This would be his first-ever game, and Greg just hoped they didn't get steamrollered too quickly, before the kid could start enjoying himself.

Owl post streamed in, and Greg caught a letter of good-luck from his parents. He smiled, remembering being a kid and listening his mum explain to his dad what quidditch was and why it was absolutely the most important sport in the world, football be damned. He heard John Watson tear open a package and start a lively disturbance over at the Gryffindor table, and groaned internally over how long prefects and the Head Boy and Girl were eventually going to have to spend clearing up whatever John had just gotten in the post. If it was another expanding swamp, Greg was going to put John in detention himself.

Game time arrived more slowly than it usually seemed to, but finally it was time for Greg to lead his happy team to the locker rooms. As he pulled on his yellow robes, he gave a pep-talk; "Okay, team, we're playing Slytherin. They'll not be kind, but remember to have fun while we flatten them, alright?" He grinned lopsidedly.

"I'm going to try a Wronski Feint and accidentally commit suicide," Archie moaned.

"Don't commit suicide," Greg told him seriously, trying to keep a light undertone in his voice. "You'll all do wonderfully, I know it. Your form is great, and I know you all love the game. Try to avoid being hit by other players, Jeanette and I will take care of the bludgers," He smiled.

"Go team," Anderson whooped, and Molly laughed.

"Go team," Greg echoed. They trooped onto the pitch, still smiling. It was a wonderful day for quidditch, little to no wind and enough cloud cover to keep the sun from blinding them but not so much that Archie wouldn't be able to see the snitch. The crowd roared as the team captains shook hands, Moriarty weirdly caressing Greg's fingers. They mounted their brooms, and Clara Watson blew her whistle, signaling the beginning of the game.

Slytherin played hard and fast, zipping in and out of the Hufflepuff team, aiming to knock players off their brooms as much as anything else. They scored two goals before Molly Hooper stole the quaffle and chucked it through the middle goal post, to the fury of keeper Sally Donovan. Hufflepuff managed another goal, scored by Molly, before Janine slammed her shoulder into Anderson's stomach and took the quaffle back, hurling it in the direction of the goal posts. Greg hit a bludger at her for Anderson, but she dodged easily and the black ball resumed zipping around the pitch. Jeanette hit it at Moriarty, who ducked and blew a raspberry. The game had turned dirty quickly, far above the pitch where Greg doubted Clara Watson could see it.

Janine scored a goal for Slytherin, earning screams of delight from the Slytherin section and some of the Ravenclaws. Sherlock applauded politely. He liked Janine, she was unassuming but not unimportant. Didn't force you to notice her, but neither was she inconsequential. _Besides_, he thought, catching sight of a streak of sky-blue, _she wore cool trainers_. Molly Hooper zipped by the stands, dodging Janine and the other Slytherins as she streaked toward the goal posts with the quaffle tucked against her chest.

Molly scored again, and Greg started keeping an eye on Archie, who was circling the pitch at varying altitudes, doing his best to find the snitch and secure a victory for Hufflepuff. A Slytherin beater named Janus smashed one of the bludgers towards Archie, and Greg swooped in front of the third-year, driving the bludger across the pitch and straight into the chest of Sally Donovan. He winced as she fell off her broom, holding on by one hand, the other curled around her chest. The goal posts were unguarded now- he bent low to his broom and flew over to her, apologizing profusely and helping her back on to her broom, and she flew off to medical. Mycroft rolled his eyes even as he applauded. Greg was _such_ a good person. It was a bit adorable.

He watched Greg fly around the pitch, outsmarting the bludgers and dodging the Slytherin beaters, who kept aiming for him. Mycroft didn't care much for the sport, but he enjoyed watching Gregory play. It was always a little distracting; he rarely knew the score when the match was over, though he did have a full catalogue of the way Gregory looked with his hair windswept, when his arms flexed powerfully to deflect a bludger, and his the way his muscles tightened when he leaned flat on his broom, urging it to go faster. Mycroft felt his eyes glaze as he faded slightly out of the present moment, wishing he knew what it felt like to properly kiss Gregory- make out, as it were. He could imagine Greg's large, dexterous hands on his hips or cradling his face. He sighed. It would never happen; even if Gregory had wanted to, Mycroft would be unable to stop thinking about how inadequate every inch of him was for Greg to touch. But sweet Avalon, Gregory was _gorgeous_.

"You may want to cheer now!" Sherlock shouted over the sudden roar of the crowd.

Mycroft blinked. Ah. Wait, was Hufflepuff _winning_? He was on his feet with half of the school, his hands stinging as he clapped as hard as he could. Sherlock wolf-whistled, and Mycroft glanced disapprovingly down at him because he'd learned to make that awful sound from Sebastian Moran. Sherlock rolled his eyes at his older brother and did it again. Anthea, behind them, laughed brightly at the pair.

Greg made a pass close by the Ravenclaw section in order to intercept a bludger headed toward Molly Hooper- he saw Mycroft applauding and grinned hugely before pulling to a sharp stop right in front of him, slamming the bludger far above the heads of the crowd on the opposing side. Definitely not showing off at all. He took off again, noting the second bludger closing in on Jeanette from behind as she played cat-and-mouse with Janine, keeping the Slytherin out of the game.

Mycroft's eyes slipped out of focus immediately after Greg flew away, his brain tying itself in knots in its haste to replay the way Greg's quidditch robes stretched over his broad shoulders as he struck the bludger. He sat down as the rest of the school also stopped cheering and sank back into their seats to watch, managing to keep his face blank and his motions controlled.

The game continued, heedless of whether he was paying attention or not. Though Archie did his best, even coming close to the snitch once only to be blocked by Janine, it was inevitably Jim Moriarty who caught the little golden ball, watching it struggle between his fingertips with a tinge of boredom. Because Hufflepuff had been ahead by forty points, the Slytherin margin of victory was less than usual, but Jim preferred the game to be over than to continue playing without a Keeper. Even _Anderson_ had scored a goal.

The two teams landed and retreated to their separate changing rooms, the Hufflepuffs smiling and the Slytherins celebrating loudly. Jim smiled and blinked lazily as everyone congratulated him. Most of his team was actually slightly frightened of him, though Janine seemed to be growing less frightened and more wary.

"Nice game, everyone! Anderson, how're you doing, looked like you got hit pretty hard," Greg was concerned.

"Not as hard as you hit Donovan, captain," Anderson winked.

"I hope she's alright, I didn't mean to do that," Greg pulled off his quidditch robes, eager to talk to Myc.

"She'll be fine." Molly smiled at him. "I've seen her take worse."

Greg smiled back before turning to Archie. "Great job, Arch, that was a fantastic first game. How did it feel?"

"Flying was great," Archie grinned. "Sorry I didn't catch the snitch though."

"Don't worry about it, the important thing is that you had fun," Greg reassured him. He'd never tell his team, but he wished he could've won, just one year he would've liked to show the other Houses that Hufflepuff should be given due consideration. Ah well; playing against Jim and Janine on one team, Sherlock on another, and John and Moran on Gryffindor, the odds had always been stacked against them.

"You did well too, Greg, thanks for saving me from the bludgers," Archie said shyly as Greg picked up his book bag.

"No problem. You'll soon start to get the hang of watching out for them- and the other players- while still looking for the snitch. I wish I could be around to see how well you're going to play next year," He smiled around at his teammates, checking that none of them needed his input immediately, and nearly skipped out of the changing room.

"Myc! Did you see? We were up on Slytherin by forty points!" He wanted to scoop Mycroft up in a celebratory hug, but he didn't think the redhead would be too receptive to that idea.

"He was too busy watching your muscles, Greg," Sherlock scoffed. _Vivienne in the Mists_, he was tired of watching them dance around each other.

"Sorry?" Greg looked like he'd been Confunded, and Mycroft flushed pink.

"He likes the way you look when you play quidditch," Sherlock elaborated, peering over the crowd to find John.

"Really?" Greg looked at Mycroft, surprised.

"I suppose," Mycroft said archly, and Sherlock stared at him in disbelief for a moment before leaving in exasperation, off to catch up with his Gryffindor. "Did you enjoy the gift I sent with Sherlock?" Mycroft changed topic quickly.

"Oh!" Greg pulled it out of his bag. "I hadn't gotten a chance to look at it, I saw the title and thought it was a joke," He smiled at Mycroft. "You know, read more history and maybe I'll get smarter, be able to keep up with you." He laughed.

"Hardly," Mycroft tilted his head, raising his eyebrows in the direction of the castle. Greg nodded and they walked toward Hogwarts together, Mycroft spinning his umbrella idly and Greg reading the haiku quietly. He looked up and blushed.

"Myc…" _How I'd like to kiss you._ "Thank you."

In the Slytherin common room, a party was going full throttle, Janine having nicked food from the kitchen on her way back from the pitch, Irene slung around her neck again. "I knew you would win," She whispered in Janine's ear, making a little breathy sound.

"Mmm. So is this it, this year, I win at quidditch and you love me again?" Her accent deepened as she got irritated with Irene's teasing touches and sweet-smelling hair.

"Clever girl, you know what I'm really like… you know what this is," Irene breathed softly against the other girl's neck, winking teasingly over Janine's shoulder at Jim, who was lounging in the middle of congratulatory and slightly frightened classmates

"Just once, Irene," She sighed and extricated herself from the woman in white. "I'd have liked it to be real," She scampered up the steps that led out of the common room, tucking her curly hair back and ducking out of the common room. It wasn't so much that she was upset as that she just didn't feel in the mood for celebrating. Deep breaths of clean air would be nice.

She was part of the winning team, but even now she didn't feel like a real part of Slytherin house, escaping their underground common room to go find some open air. Sure, she was worried about herself first and foremost, but all the others seemed to have some edge that allowed them to survive. Irene had a compendium of memory strung in an Unbreakable vial around her neck that allowed her leverage to do nearly anything she liked. Jim was- well, Jim. Slytherins were supposed to be cunning. Janine didn't think of herself as cunning; she was a survivalist. When she could use something to her advantage, she would; she didn't plot and manipulate like Jim and Irene did. She stuck her hands in the pockets of her robes and strolled along the corridor, paying no attention to the other students.

"Great game, Molly!" Jeanette congratulated enthusiastically as they returned to their common room.

"Thanks, you too," She grinned, pulling bobby pins out of her hair. She'd learned years ago not to wear a pony tail when playing with Slytherin, because they had no compunctions about using it as a handle. She had since worn her light brown hair in two braids around the back of her head when playing quidditch. "That was a really good blocking you were using on Janine, I think it helped us get past them and score a few,"

"Good, that was the idea." Jeanette smiled, taking a seat in the common room with all the other pleased Hufflepuffs as Molly continued into her dormitory to clean up a bit and get her book bag. She shook her hair out and then put it up in a high ponytail, checking that she had quills and ink before setting off for the hospital wing.

"Hi, Sally," Molly waved to the Slytherin keeper, flat on her back with a half-empty glass of Skele-gro next to her. Molly winced for her sake.

"Bludger really got you, huh?"

"Tell Greg thanks for that, two broken ribs, one fractured. Spiral."  
"Ouch," Molly flinched sympathetically. "He didn't mean to, I'm sure he'll be by in a bit to be sure you're alright." Even as she spoke, the hospital wing doors opened again, and Greg Lestrade bounded in carrying wildflowers from the grounds for Sally, followed by a silent and dignified- if a bit bored- Mycroft Holmes. Molly ducked her head and smiled at them both, hurrying off to find Healer Smallwood. She'd promised to show Molly how to treat minor curses that had rebounded, like the time a few years back that Anderson had tried to curse a seventh-year Slytherin for laughing at Sherlock. Molly smiled at the memory.

Janine climbed up the steps to the Owlery, one of the only places in the castle without glass in the windows. She sat down on a ledge, dangling her feet into space. An owl flew down and landed on her lap; she smiled and cooed at it, recognizing it as Sherlock's. "Hullo, Redbeard."

"Oh, that's where he's gone," Sherlock's voice sounded, bored, from the shadows across the circular room. He crossed to stand behind Janine, reaching out a hand to stroke Redbeard's distinctive reddish breast feathers.

"He's so beautiful, Sherlock," Janine smiled.

"I'm sorry Irene's playing with you again," Sherlock answered.

"Oh, don't worry. As long as you don't mind me petting Redbeard sometimes," She laughed. It was nice, knowing Sherlock. He never seemed to quite know what to say, or probably what _not_ to say. It made him very casual around Janine, who didn't insist that every second of silence be filled. "You know, Sherlock, if things were different-" If I wasn't a Slytherin, if you weren't a Ravenclaw, if Jim and Irene didn't exist- "We could've been friends," She smiled again.

He opened and closed his mouth, ruffling the back of his already puffed-up hair. _Aren't we already?_

"So why're you up here?" She crossed her ankles and looked up at him.

"Quieter," he gestured at his head. "Not so many people around doing," He wrinkled his nose. "People things." Janine laughed. "They demand to be noticed. It gets very loud. The owls are much more friendly, and don't mind so much if I know where they're going." He smirked to himself.

"D'you want me to leave?" Janine made to draw her feet back in the window, but Sherlock stopped her with a hand on her shoulder.

"Not at all. You're very… you're easy to read. But you're not abrasive." He grimaced. "Sorry, that was… Um. Would you like to- talk about it?" He tried to make amends for his awkwardness, easing his long legs out the window, sitting beside her, leaning a bit too far forward for Janine's comfort.

"How about you stay inside the window, there, Sherl?"

"Sherl," He made a face. "No one calls me Sherl,"

"Consider me no one then," Janine smiled.

"Tell me about Irene Adler." Even Janine could tell that he wasn't asking out of idle curiosity or- god forbid- friendly concern.

"What do you want to know?"

"What does she see in you?"

"Well, what do you see in me?"

Sherlock began to reel off traits. "Curly dark hair, brown eyes, symmetrical face, curves, tendency to wear interesting but casual shoes- turquoise converse today- button down shirt over pants. Light makeup-"

Janine laughed. "That's what you see _on_ me, Sherlock."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, though he didn't seem angry. "I was only getting started, Janine, and besides it leads to the fact that you're attractive in a way Irene isn't. The way she puts herself together is very calculated. You just get up looking like this." He bumped her shoulder with his own. "So she's a tiny bit jealous. And she thinks you have potential, she wants it to work for her. She sees you as another of her safety nets- because no matter who she kisses or manipulates, there's always Janine, willing to take care of her."

"There, you see? You already knew what she sees in me." Janine shrugged.

"But… what do you see in her?"

"I see…" Janine exhaled, kicking her heels against the wall and fluffing Redbeard, who glared up at her.

"Oh," Sherlock mouthed. "You see danger, don't you? You see a _real_ Slytherin."

"That about sums it up," Janine looked away with a forced laugh.

"Janine, you do know that what house you're in doesn't define you?"

"Easy for you to say, Sherlock. You're the perfect Ravenclaw. You're exactly what Rowena would have looked for in her students."

"In a way, I suppose." Sherlock shrugged. "But she would've also looked for people like Billy Wiggins and Cherry Abbott, they may not be brilliant but all they care about is learning and knowing and using knowledge, and they work hard for that. There's more than one means to an end, Janine. Just because you're not borderline psychopathic doesn't mean you don't belong where you wanted to be."

"How did you know?" She looked back at him, surprised.

"Janine, please." He rolled his eyes. "It wasn't exactly hard. You're insightful enough that you could have been a Ravenclaw, solicitous enough that you could have been a Hufflepuff, daring enough that you could have been a Gryffindor. Yet here you sit, with a green and silver tie around your neck, having just won a game for Slytherin. Congratulations on that by the way."

"Thanks," She gave a fleeting smile and took a deep breath. Sharing with Sherlock was so easy, probably too easy. Janine realized that she might be being manipulated, but she supposed she trusted Sherlock not to do anything as bad as Jim or Irene might if they were given this information. "I chose Slytherin because I thought it would be hard, and fun at the same time. I'm not sure I was right." She bit the inside of her lip, kicking her heels against the stone tower. "Sorry, you don't really care. So tell me why you're really up here?"

"I…" _John was kissing a girl._ "I don't have any reason to be down there." His expression shuttered.

Janine giggled, not watching Sherlock's face, looking instead at Redbeard twitch his wings and fluff his feathers out. "And there is your whole personality in a nutshell," She told Sherlock. Redbeard chose that moment to flap his wings and begin to take off, and Janine pushed him forward, leaning out the window and waving him off her hand.

"How about you stay in the window, Janie." Sherlock quoted.

Janine laughed, leaning back, and obligingly returned, "No one calls me Janie."

"Consider me no one, then." He nodded with a melancholy smile, curls falling forward.

"Ah, and just when I was starting to fall for you." Janine said with good-humored sarcasm. "You're a heartless, manipulative bastard, Sherlock Holmes," She bumped her shoulder into his and they both chuckled, looking down at Redbeard swooping vengefully on the heads of a Gryffindor and his girlfriend.

"You know, I could shoot a killing curse and blame it on you." Sherlock mused.

Janine laughed incredulously. "Woah there, Sherl, wanna switch ties? See how long it takes people to notice?"

"'Course, I'd have to use your wand; Priori Incantatem and all that,"

"Don't go offending me, remember that you have to play me at quidditch sooner or later, and it's easier than you think to make a collision look accidental."

"There, you see, I told you that you were a proper Slytherin," He winked. Most of his face stayed blank, and Janine realized that conversation time was over. She remained sitting beside him. His presence wasn't uncomfortable, nor did it disturb the peace she'd been seeking when she left the Slytherin common room.

"Sherlock," John whispered, tapping again at the Ravenclaw door. Not hard enough to trigger the eagle knocker, just enough that someone in the common room might hear him.

The door swung inward. "John," Sherlock's voice was surprised. "What are you doing here?" He looked at his watch. "Wasn't that- that curfew thing, an hour ago?"

John ignored him. "Do you want to solve a mystery?"

"I'll get my cloak," He darted up the stairs and was back in an instant, before John's giddy smile had faded. "We're going to the Forest?" He pulled the door to the common room closed behind him, swinging the cloak over his shoulders but leaving the buttons unfastened, looping a Ravenclaw scarf around his neck.

"How did-? Yeah, we are." John smiled, and they took off down the stairs, treading as quietly as possible. They made it to the front doors, and Sherlock pushed one open, holding it as John ducked beneath his arm. He darted out himself, allowing it to swing shut, and they took off across the grounds, sprinting over frosted grass in the moonlight. When the cabin of the groundskeepers, the Prince family, came into view the pair slowed, creeping through the pumpkin patch in the back. "Okay. I saw a bunch of people coming in here earlier, during Divination, and I want to know why."

"Triwizard Tournament. Bit obvious, don't you think?"

"What, don't you want to go on an adventure with me?" John laughed. He knew Sherlock would never pass up the chance to be nosy.

"Of course I do, John, don't be an idiot. I only meant that it's not precisely hard to deduce what's going on." He sniffed, echoing Mycroft's pretention.

"Alright, stuff it, let's see what's going on," John grinned, and Sherlock smiled back, the pair creeping further into the forest. Their paths diverged slightly, and John found himself looking around in the darkness for his friend. "Sherlock?" He stretched out a hand.

"Here," Sherlock's voice was a few feet away, and John continued in that direction, finding the back of Sherlock's cloak with his fingertips. They resumed walking, shoulder to shoulder, until Sherlock flung out a hand to stop John. "Do you hear that?" He breathed.

"No," John said uncertainly. "Can I light my wand?"

"Lumos," Sherlock whispered, his wand tip igniting and throwing a soft light between the tree trunks. He raised his wand high, casting a much broader pool of light than John would have managed.

"What's that?" John gestured to a slight shimmer in the air, just the barest distortion of the trees beyond it.

"Shield charm," Sherlock answered.

"Why's it there then?"

"Probably to keep people out. Or to keep people in. It's either a defense or a boundary." He looked around, directing his lit wand in all directions. "There, John, see over there? The same. It's a path…"

John beamed at him. "Brilliant,"

"Obvious. If it's for the Tournament, this must be the course for the First Task… They'll likely continue developing it as the time draws closer."  
"Well if they're aiming to finish before the other schools arrive, they'd better hurry; three more days," John commented.

"Mm." Sherlock made a noise of assent, stepping curiously farther into the forest. "John… it wasn't misty a moment ago. It isn't nearly cold enough for mist." He blew out his breath to underline his point.

"Dementors?" John flexed his hand around his wand.

"I don't feel afraid. Do you?"

"Bit nervous," He shrugged. "Not terrified, though. Not feeling like there's nothing good left in the world,"

"Hm." Sherlock continued into the trees, intrigued. John followed, lighting his own wand tip.

The mist thickened, and John began to cough.

"Shush, John, I'm trying to listen." Sherlock's voice was a slightly rough whisper, tinged with the first edge of fear John had ever heard in it. "Do you hear that? The growling?"

"Nothing in the forest growls, Sherlock."

"I know, John, but they may have brought something in for the Tournament…" Sherlock reached back to be sure John was still there. He glanced over his shoulder long enough to see the blond try to smile reassuringly, and then he faced forward again, only to be confronted with three sets of glowing red eyes, just above his own eye level. He stumbled back with a yelp, pulling John back as a massive beast began to materialize from the darkness. "John it's a Cerberus," His voice was panicked, and he tugged at John's robes, trying to get the Gryffindor to run from something for once in his life.

"Where, Sherlock?" The blonde turned in the mist, alarm rising in his chest as he heard another deep growl.

"Right ahead, John!" Sherlock exclaimed, now watching nearly transfixed as the beast snapped and pawed at the mist, as though it were trying to find them, its gigantic paws causing spirals and sudden gusts through the damp air.

John swore. "Let's go, Sherlock, back up,"

"I've been trying, John, come on!" He grabbed John's hand and pulled, and they took several steps backwards together, stumbling through the heavy fog with the growls of the three-headed dog behind them. Sherlock kept seeing other shapes in the weird fog, and he kept tight hold of John's hand for fear that the other boy would suddenly be torn away from him as the footfalls of the gigantic dog followed them.

Finally they burst out of the forest, the mist trailing from their overexerted lungs. "What the bloody hell was that?" John demanded, looking at Sherlock with eyes blown wide by fear.

"A Cerberus, John, in the Forest. It must be- must be guarding the Task," Sherlock heaved in lungfuls of clean air.

"_Why_ can they not use a shield charm?" John demanded, terror beginning to reassert itself as his need for more oxygen became less immediate. He watched the edge of the forest warily, tugging Sherlock away.

"They- they did, John, the path is defined by shield charms…" Sherlock stumbled after him, slightly frantic eyes darting between John and the tree line. The mist wasn't there, or at least he couldn't see it from this far away.

"Are you telling me that bloody thing is what the Champions are Tasked with?" John looked horrified.

"Possibly. The other option is that it's guarding whatever the Task is. Or it could be a coincidence," Sherlock didn't look convinced.

"Like hell it's a coincidence," John agreed, both of them starting to turn from the forest as they moved backwards. He glanced over his shoulder at the trees in the moonlight. "Well, I'm certainly not putting my name down to deal with that. I have no idea how I'd get rid of the thing. Let some seventh year have it." He shuddered.

Sherlock was relieved. "I agree," He said, brushing his fingertips unobtrusively against John's cloak, just to reassure himself that his friend was still there, his mind still on edge and almost… dazed after the Cerberus. He shook his head to clear it as they neared the castle, their paces increasing.

"Thanks for coming," John whispered, sounding almost sarcastic.

"I'd not have wanted you to go in there alone, with that thing." Sherlock shivered. John might not have noticed it; he nearly hadn't even when the thing had been on top of them… he tugged open the front door, holding it for John.

"Thanks, mate. See you for breakfast," He grinned shakily and set off for Gryffindor tower, plunging into a secret passageway halfway down the hall and disappearing from Sherlock's sight. The Ravenclaw pulled the door closed with a loud thud and rushed up the stairs to his own common room, bothered still by the hound in the woods…


	4. Arrival of Beauxbatons and Durmstrang

"Who do you think will enter?" Cherry asked Sherlock over breakfast on the morning of the day the other two schools were to arrive. Looking around the castle, the preparation was subtle but definitely there- cleaner picture frames, suits of armor completely free of poltergeists and newly polished. Even the vanishing stairs had cut down their shenanigans, much to Sherlock's regret. They'd been Rowena Ravenclaw's idea, and he liked to think of them as fellow Ravenclaws, friends in that they'd listen to him if he talked- and interesting in their own right, in that they occasionally pulled themselves out from under the feet of the unwary. When he was younger, he could always count on them to disappear after he hopped them when he was being chased up the stairs.

He swallowed his biscuit, counting off names on his fingers. "Irene Adler, Sebastian Moran, Greg Lestrade, maybe that Hufflepuff girl- Kate- possibly Billy Wiggins, possibly John Watson, maybe Janine or Phillip Anderson."

"Who would you want to be in it?"  
"That depends, am I cheering for them to win?" He raised a brow, eyes twinkling just the slightest bit as the corner of his mouth twitched. Cherry was his favorite informant on the younger students. She could always tell him who was breaking what rule, when and where. It helped him be invaluable as a prefect if he knew who to suspect.

"Who from Hogwarts would you want to win?"

Sherlock hadn't given it much thought, devoting more of his energies to hoping that John would choose not to enter. He steepled his fingers, resting his chin on them. "Well, I suppose if their victory were assured, I would say John Watson. He is the best man I've ever known. In that same vein, I'd not want him risked unnecessarily or killed in some foolish sport." He cleared his throat as Cherry looked knowingly at him. "Shut up," He wrinkled his nose at her and stabbed his toast.

"I didn't say anything," She laughed. "I'd better start moving or I'll be late to class," She stood unsteadily. Sherlock knew better than to ask if she needed help. He simply nodded and waved goodbye with his fork, preparing to skewer an egg he'd suddenly taken a disliking to. By disliking he meant he wanted to do an experiment later and it looked like it would be perfect. He folded it up in a napkin and slipped it in his bookbag, standing up and hurrying off to the Room of Requirement. He had fifteen minutes before class started; he'd stash the egg and run back later, when everyone else was distracted by the arrival of the other schools.

Greg had talked Mycroft into ignoring the House seating arrangement, on the grounds that they had no classes together that day, and no one would care anyway; it was only breakfast, not a feast. He was now studying for Transfiguration like most everyone else was studying, as there were a series of tests planned before the other students arrived, while Mycroft scanned surreptitiously up and down the hall, as always keeping to his responsibilities as Head Boy.

Molly Hooper was sitting with them, a Charms textbook open in front of her, but her mind was on her last quidditch game. She looked up and asked, "What do you think the best move for me to use against Moriarty would have been?" smiling at Greg and sticking her spoon back into her porridge.

The Hufflepuff team captain thought for a moment, absently dripping ink from the tip of his quill onto his toast. "Well, that's difficult to answer. Your styles are so different, and the demands of each team are pretty different too, but I honestly think the best thing for anyone to do is to try to avoid Moriarty off the pitch, that way Jim won't have anything making him want to screw specifically with you the way he's targeted people in the past."

"Good point I guess, though it seems a bit silly, doesn't it, holding a grudge like that."

"A bit," Greg smiled grimly. "But besides, you've never seemed to have that problem." He went back to his Transfiguration textbook, eating toast absently with the hand he wasn't using to underline various passages.

"So, er, Mycroft," Molly tried to make small talk, but the Ravenclaw boy had always intimidated her a bit. He seemed so removed all the time, and none of his expressions looked quite honest. It was like watching Priori Incantatem: his emotions were there only in shadow, not in substance. She preferred Sherlock's melodrama, even if it kind of scared her sometimes.

"Yes?"

"Oh- er- have you heard about the new potion they're testing at St. Mundgo's for bite wounds?" she grasped at conversation, opting for the thing Healer Smallwood had mentioned in passing the day before.

"Heard of it?" Greg interrupted, looking up to grin hugely. "Molly, he's the one who _suggested_ it!" he bumped Mycroft with his shoulder, looking proud, and the Ravenclaw blushed lightly, seeming pleased.

"Hardly. I posed a rhetorical question in correspondence and she extrapolated."

"Don't be modest, Myc, you're bloody brilliant!"

"Who were you corresponding with that could make that happen?" Molly broke in, curious.

"Healer Louise Mortimer" Mycroft shrugged as though it were no big deal, as though everyone corresponded with the head of a field they themselves had only a casual interest in.

Molly stared. "Oh my god, really?"

"Indeed," Mycroft looked at her, not unkindly, and then looked over her head at the Slytherin table. Jim Moriarty was almost actively begging for his attention. He continued talking to Molly, half of his attention on the Slytherin table, and pushing Greg's toast out from under the Hufflepuff's once-again unattended dripping quill. "She's very intelligent. Excellent understanding of Herbology, wonderful theories about the lunar cycle. I think she may be close to an antidote for werewolf bites."

"You talk about her like-" Molly stopped, unsure whether she wanted to say 'like you're friends' or 'like you're equals.' She looked down with an embarrassed little shake of her head. "How long have you been writing her?"

Mycroft answered her absently, standing to investigate the doings of Jim Moriarty as the Slytherin stood and sauntered out of the Hall with a meaningful glance back at Mycroft. "She contacted me at the end of fifth year to congratulate me on an essay published in _Potions Productions_. I'll mention you to her, she admires dedication." He left the table, resting a hand momentarily on Gregory's shoulder as he passed. Greg smiled up, after him, and then looked back down at Molly.

"Will he- will he really tell _Healer Mortimer_ about me?" Molly's face twitched into a hopeful smile.

"Of course he will," Greg smiled warmly back. "He knows how much time you devote to the Hospital Wing, I'm sure Healer Mortimer will be very impressed," he dipped his quill again and returned to poring over spells about human-to-object Transfiguration, making a mental note to remind Mycroft about mentioning Molly. Not that the Ravenclaw would forget, of course, but it would be a good way to bring up his boyfriend's genius again. Greg never quite got used to how brilliant Mycroft was, and he liked to talk about it. It made the other boy happy and proud, which was adorable and made Greg's heart go through little squirms of happiness of his own.

Jim Moriarty slipped into the seventh-floor corridor without bothering to look back, confident that Mycroft Holmes was shadowing him. He nearly collided with the younger Holmes brother as he rounded the corner, and tried not to betray any surprise. "Hullo, Sherlock," He drawled.

"Jim," The Ravenclaw nodded, curls bouncing, taking a fluid step away. He was still mad, then. Pity, that… he was normally so forgiving, not bound by petty things like convention or norms. Jim supposed that taunting him with an Imperiused John Watson had taken things a step too far. He wondered whether an apology would do any good, but doubted it.

"What're you doing up here? Your class isn't here," Jim pretended to be confused, knowing full well that Sherlock Holmes too made use of the Room of Requirement.

"Wandered off," Sherlock lied smoothly. "You wouldn't happen to have the time?"

"Seven minutes until class," Jim answered, eager for once to move past the taller brunet. He had a nice little warning set up for the elder Holmes, and wanted to give him plenty of time to consider it.

Sherlock left without another word, strolling past Jim and rounding the corner. Jim heard him exchange a few words with Mycroft, but they were too quiet to catch. Didn't matter, probably just a taunt of some kind. The important thing now was to open the Room and get out. Jim paced quickly, pivoting at the edges of where he knew the Room to be_. I need the place I always come_.

A door appeared, heavy and bolted. He drew back the weight and slipped away, leaving Mycroft to deal with the leverage. He'd have to think twice in the future about interfering with Jim, which he did annoyingly often.

"No, no, John, you're doing it all wrong," Sherlock seized John's hand.

"Sherlock! I haven't even done anything yet, let go," John tugged ineffectually against the younger boy's tight grasp, but it was no use. Sherlock's hands were much larger than John's, and his fingers could cover every angle of escape.

"Well, you were about to. Give me that," He tugged the bowl of powder from John's hands, careful not to spill any. "We need to stir counter-clockwise three times before we add that," He set the bowl down, looked down at his cauldron, and seemed to realize that he was still holding John's hand, releasing it quickly.

"That's not in the textbook," John said, flipping the page back and forth.

"Please, John, when has that thing ever been right," Sherlock rolled his eyes, picking up the stir-stick and watching the potion carefully, suddenly plunging the stick in and mixing rapidly three times.

"If you mess this up I will flatten you next week," John muttered.

"As if you could catch me," Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm a Seeker, John, I'm trained to evade."

"You're trained to catch the Snitch!" John exclaimed. "Can we put the powder in now?"

"By all means," Sherlock swept his hand over their potion, indicating that John was free to add the eggs any time. John had to admit that the potion's surface was now a lot closer to the lavender it was supposed to be when they added the powdered Ashwinder eggs. John dumped in the dust, and Sherlock mixed four times clockwise- this time it actually said to do so in the book. He threw in an extra stir, though, and removed the potion immediately from the flames as the surface developed a mother-of-pearl sheen.

"Wow," John said, looking admiringly at Sherlock. "How do you do that?"

Sherlock shrugged, pleased by the attention. "It isn't difficult to observe the behavior of the potion and deduce the meaning behind it, much less difficult than doing the same with humans, and from there all I need to know is which direction to go in- helpfully provided by the end result listed in the book."

Professor Stamford clapped a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Well done, Holmes. Top marks again," He smiled. "And the same for Watson, first time since First year. Bet you're glad to be back with the Ravenclaws, eh?"

John protested in mock affront. "Come on now, I'm pretty good on my own!"

"True, true… If it weren't for the Holmes boys, you might just be my top student." He chuckled. "Well, go on then, what does it smell like to you?"

John leaned over the cauldron and breathed in. "Er-" It hardly smelled any different to him than the way the space around him had been smelling. That was a little too narcissistic for him to voice, so he said, "Maybe less like other people's potions are around? Some rain, I guess, like cold air?" He shrugged. "Otherwise, nothing new. Smells the same as it's been smelling in here. Maybe we _did_ do something wrong?"

Professor Stamford barely concealed a smile. "Oh, I doubt that. Try to think of what else it could be when you write your paper, eh, Watson?" He clapped the confused boy on the shoulder, turning to the Ravenclaw, who looked severely disappointed in humanity. "Sherlock, what's it smell like to you?"

_It smells like John, professor_. Hardly an acceptable answer. "Parchment, old books." That was true, if not the complete truth. He could also smell John's toothpaste and that odd scent that seemed to be distinct to the Gryffindor. "Not actually much of a change for me, either. Perhaps I could already smell what I am attracted to." He added, with a long, meaningful look directed at John.

Professor Stamford smiled knowingly in the background. "Perhaps that's the case for both you boys?"

"_You_ just don't want to have done something wrong," John laughed at Sherlock, who blinked in confusion.

"Professor, I think I've sort of- uh," Moran broke into the conversation, drawing Stamford's attention away from the young fools who'd met in his class five years previously. Sherlock had, characteristically, left his ink well in his other robes' pocket, and John had offered to share. They'd been inseparable since. Stamford was glad to see them back in Potions together.

"Don't worry, Sebastian, this potion is extremely advanced. I just thought I'd set it as a means to, ah- get things rolling." He sighed to himself at his failed attempt. "Try to start the year off with some fireworks. No need to worry if you haven't got it yet, we'll try again at the end of the year. I'm sure you'll all be able to mix it perfectly- but none leaves this room!" He added with a wag of his finger. "No love potions getting passed around, understood? Especially not after the other schools get here, we ought to make our very best impressions on the guests." He pointed his wand at Sherlock's cauldron and Vanished the contents as a precaution. Not that he thought the young Ravenclaw would have resorted to that, necessarily, but he'd had Potions with the Slytherins last year, and Jim Moriarty hadn't exactly been a wonderful influence.

"Okay, everyone, pack up your things. Class ends in five minutes. Bring me a sample of your potion, I'll expect an essay on what you did wrong- or right- on Monday."

"Wingardium Levi-oh-baby," Jim whistled at Sebastian as he left class.

"Shut it, Jim," Moran grumbled good-naturedly, happy that Jim was interested in him today. Days without his attention got so unbearably dull, he took to cursing flies out of the air.

"No," Jim grinned cheekily back. "How was class, then?"

"Unproductive. All anyone talks about is the other schools coming."

"What do you think they'll be like?"

"I imagine they'll have accents, Jim, and other than that they'll be just like us." Sebastian smirked.

"BoOooOoOOring," Jim sang, striding along beside Moran with a bounce in his step.

"How come you were waiting for me? Don't you have class today?"

"Oh, sure. But _someone_," He winked, "Set loose a whole _horde_ of Cornish pixies, and Dimmock had to go round them up. Early dismissal for yours truly."

"Jim, you can't just fuck all the shit up every time you want to meet me after class. You know it takes me like two minutes to get to the Great Hall, right?"

"But that's two minutes not with you," Jim pouted dramatically, practically rubbing against Sebastian as they walked down the hallway.

"Come off it," He suppressed his shiver and took a step away, nearly crashing into the Ravenclaw girl with the limp.

"Ugh, come on, Seb…" Jim closed the gap between them again. "I'm so bored," He tried to bite Sebastian's neck, but the Gryffindor ducked. Jim chuckled. "You're in an obstinate mood tonight, aren't you?"

Never. "Not obstinate, Jim, I just don't like having your teeth embedded in my neck while I'm walking,"

"So I can embed them in your neck later?" Jim perked up visibly, and Seb smiled.

"If you can find us an empty classroom, help me with my potions essay, and cast a muffliato charm," Sebastian shrugged. He knew from past experience that seeming overeager would get him ignored for a week or more, where playing hard to get earned him favor for at least a day. He'd take the day, any time, any day with Jim focused on him. It was dangerous and mad and felt like he was trying to climb a fence between bliss and madness, and had gotten stuck at the top in a region that was closest to being caught in a rain of terror while standing in a puddle of love. Nothing was so heady. Sebastian thought sometimes that being in love with Jim Moriarty was probably a little bit like the last moments before death.

"Oooh, you drive a hard bargain," Jim smiled dangerously, his eyebrows rising, biting his lower lip. "I'll take it. Let's go,"

"After lunch, Jim, god. I do need to eat, you know."

"Boring!"

Sebastian couldn't help laughing. "You sound like Sherlock,"

"You sound like John." Jim returned, scrunching up his face in good-humored distaste. Sebastian wondered what he could be up to that had him in such a cheerful mood. It would have been a worrying concept, were he anyone else.

"Oh no, I'm not _nearly _so in denial. Did you see who he was out with last Hogsmeade trip? If Sherlock was a girl, he'd look just like this one."

"Who was she?"

"No idea, but you should have seen them just now. We finished brewing our Amortentia today, and Sherlock was practically spelling it out for John and the idiot literally told him he'd made the potion wrong and the smell wasn't working right."

Jim rolled his eyes at Sherlock's obvious desperation. "Pathetic."

"I know, I really just want them to get together already." Moran rolled his eyes in turn as they entered the Great Hall. "Hey, Jim, I didn't know you knew Legilimency," He suddenly grinned sideways at the shorter boy.

Jim looked up with an exaggerated grimace. "What?" He raised his eyebrows. God he was cute.

"Or that you were such a whore," Sebastian bit back a preemptive laugh.

Jim's mouth dropped into a perfect 'O,' his eyebrows rising again as he made an extravagant face of surprise.

"You know, Jim… a Legilimental whore… because you blow my mind," Sebastian delivered his punch line with a snort, feeling like he ought to have sunglasses or do that odd muggle gun thing with his hands.

"Why do I even bother," Jim muttered, shaking his head.

"Because I'm hot," Sebastian laughed. "And I'm a great aim with curses,"

"That you are, Tiger," Jim agreed, smiling indulgently at his Gryffindor.

"The other schools are coming tonight!" Molly exclaimed as she and Anderson collided in the hall.

"I know," He answered giddily. "What do you think it'll be like? Do you think they'll just walk up to the gates and we'll all clap and they'll come eat with us? Where are they sleeping?" He'd asked everyone he knew the same questions, gathering theories.

"I bet it'll be dramatic. You know, I think they'll just sort of suddenly be here, all regal and… sudden." Molly laughed quietly at her own choice of words. "Anyway, I have to go, I promised I'd help Healer Smallwood sort the antidotes in the Hospital Wing before the guests arrive for the Tournament. She's freshly stocked, I think it's going to be pretty dangerous," Her eyes widened slightly. "See you tonight!" Anderson smiled after her as she adjusted course to get to the Hospital Wing.

"Good, Gregory, now loosen your grip just slightly," Mycroft stood behind Greg, a half an inch of space between their bodies, his right arm stretched out along Gregory's, hand resting in a gently mimicry of the Hufflepuff's grip on his wand. "Not so much, you'll drop it if you move now," He corrected, pressuring Greg's knuckles down with the tips of his fingers. "Good."

"_Homenum Revelio_," the shorter boy said. A slight woosh left his wand, accompanied by a vague shimmering in the air he would have missed had he not been looking for it.

"Excellent. Non-verbally, now," Mycroft resisted the temptation to rest his chin on Greg's shoulder or slip a hand around his waist. That would be pushing his luck, not to mention terribly unprofessional in an empty classroom as he taught the other boy a spell he'd come across while reading an advanced textbook. The air in front of Greg's wand shivered again, and the Hufflepuff boy smiled.

"I did it!"

"I am unsurprised. You are quite good at this, Gregory," Mycroft pressed a quick, shy kiss to Greg's cheek. Greg flushed, and made an aborted motion toward him as Mycroft dropped his hand and stepped away. "I think you will impress your N.E.W.T. proctor."

Greg smiled again. "Really?"

"Of course."

"Do I impress you?" Greg tried to flirt, the spot where Mycroft had kissed him somehow glowing warmer than the rest of his face.

"Of course," Mycroft responded, sounding deliberately blank. Greg dropped his eyes and the subject.

"So, can we stand together when we greet the other schools?" He looked back up hopefully.

"I believe we will be grouped by the staff. I will make every effort to join you," Mycroft promised. "The arrival of the other schools will be before dinner, there will be a feast to welcome them." He grimaced.

"Okay, thanks," Greg smiled. "So how long until we ought to start getting ourselves to somewhere a professor can boss us around?"

Mycroft gave him a sort of condescending look, tilting his head and letting his mouth curl up just a bit so Gregory would know he wasn't really demeaning the Hufflepuff's intellect. "The Heads of Houses will speak to everyone in their common rooms in," He checked his watch. "Twenty minutes. It takes four to reach the Hufflepuff common room from here, and nearly five to reach the Ravenclaw." _Well, five for me_. He tried not to wrinkle his face in disgust at himself.

"So I have fifteen more minutes with you?" Greg brightened. _This is the time, Greg, carpe the diem_, he urged himself.

"It would seem so. Did you wish for my help on the essay set in Potions?"

"Eh…" That hadn't been precisely what Greg was going for. "Could we work on them together? Just- so you're here. So I'm spending time with you." He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, smiling lopsidedly.

Mycroft couldn't help the soft smile that spread across his face. "Of course," He took out his quill and parchment, sitting down at one of the empty desks, and looked up, startled, as Greg perched on the desk's surface.

"Mind if I sit here?"

Mycroft swallowed and looked down at his parchment to hide his blush. "Of course not."

Greg balanced his feet on a chair beside Mycroft, using a book set flat on his knees as a writing surface. He set an inkwell beside him, carefully moving it out of the range of his own elbow, and he looked at Mycroft for a moment, watching the Ravenclaw's pale hand dash gracefully across his parchment, wanting to run his fingers through Mycroft's dark red hair. He shook himself; he was supposed to be writing about what the best antidote to brew in a hurry was. Some antidotes took ages, and if you weren't expecting to find someone poisoned then you'd want something widely applicable. He wrote as much as an introduction, and tried to decide whether it wouldn't be better to just keep a few bezoars in your pocket.

On the front steps of the castle, Molly Hooper adjusted her large Hufflepuff-yellow hair bow as she was positioned just beside John Watson, the two of them standing on the edge of their Houses in the same row, being in the same year. Their Heads of Houses moved away, trying to keep the younger students still for a few moments more. John looked at Molly and winked. "Are you ready?"

"I don't know what I'm supposed to be ready for!"

"That's half the fun, isn't it," John grinned. "I hope they fly, I wanna know how they fly."

"Is everything about quidditch with you?" Molly smiled indulgently.

"No!" John pretended to be offended, "I also like food."

"And doing dangerous things with Sherlock."

"Yeah," John nodded and grinned. "That too. I wonder if we could both be Hogwarts Champions. A dynamic duo," He laughed, and so did Molly, until they were hushed a moment later by Headmistress Hudson. John recalled the Cerberus in the forest with a slight shiver, grateful that Sherlock had been there with him.

"Alright, everyone, keep quiet and be respectful, or I'll be writing home for all of you, understood?" Her glare didn't _look_ real, but John wasn't sure he'd be willing to risk it. "The other schools will be here very soon, and then they will join us for a feast and a more thorough explanation of the Tournament." She turned her back on them to face the grounds.

"They're not Apparating… that wouldn't be grand enough," Molly whispered to John.

"Shh, wait- the Lake." He pointed, his gesture and words echoed throughout the crowd. The normally-smooth surface of the lake was being disturbed, spinning in lazy circles.

A faint gurgling noise echoed across the grounds from the lake, just as Cherry pointed at the sky and shouted, "Look!"

"What was she doing watching the sky?" Molly wondered aloud to John as her eyes darted between the whirlpool in the lake and the large, awkward shape in the sky.

"She's a Ravenclaw, don't question it," John answered, eyes fixed on the sky. The object was moving closer and closer. "Sherlock," John called down the row. "What is it?"  
"Carriage and a ship, John," The 'obviously' was just as loud and clear as the rest of the reply, and John laughed, squinting between the two modes of arrival.

The carriage was huge, powdery blue, and it loomed ever-larger over the Forbidden Forest. Molly felt the urge to take a step back as it approached, worried that she was going to be knocked over by the enormous horses drawing the carriage. They were golden in color, she thought maybe they were palominos, but she'd never heard of a palomino being that big. A small giant could have ridden one. The carriage itself was easily large enough for thirty students, but when it landed only about twenty climbed out, followed by the headmistress.

"Artist," Sherlock murmured back to Mycroft, standing in the row behind him.

"Not a native Frenchwoman," his bother replied.

"Liar," Sherlock observed with interest.

"Willing to bend rules."

"Mm. We'll have to look out for her during the Tournament, won't we…" Sherlock tapped his fingers against his chin. "You think Lestrade will really put his name in?"

"He's been thinking about it, but he hasn't said anything to me yet. I don't know that he's particularly serious, but there is the possibility that he will be chosen regardless of why he puts his name in, given his character." A faint streak of pride broke through Mycroft's clinical tone.

Sherlock made an affirmative noise in return, eyes drawn by the lake even as the two Headmistresses greeted each other. A huge ship was surfacing, rigging and dark sails first, followed by a black hull studded with dimly glowing portholes. He breathed out a slight sigh, instantly imagining scaling the rigging around one of those blood-red sails.

"Impressive," Sherlock observed as the ship crashed to the surface, shuddering on the waves of the Black Lake.

"Perhaps they will let you play pirate, brother dear," Mycroft leaned forward to murmur back, and Sherlock grinned.

"Perhaps I won't ask their permission," He answered.

"Now, now. You are a prefect," Mycroft's halfhearted protests were ignored in favor of the gangplank slamming down on the bank of the Black Lake. Sherlock heard a splash as the anchor entered the water, and he looked around excitedly for John. Oh, he was talking to Molly. Janine then. He looked the other way and caught her eye. She mouthed 'oh my god,' and he grinned hugely.

"Students of Hogwarts, allow me to present Headmistress Wenceslas of Beauxbatons academy of magic, and her students." Headmistress Hudson flourished her hand in the direction of their guests, who wore blue robes matching their carriage. Sherlock noted with alarm that many of the French girls were attractive, and seemed to be scanning the crowd of Hogwarts faces for 'foreign fling' material. He'd have to keep John under particularly close watch.

"Eet eez a pleasure to be back at 'ogwarts," The Beauxbatons Headmistress addressed them all politely.

"Perhaps we could wait for Charles and his Durmstrangs before we adjourn to the Great Hall?" Headmistress Hudson smiled, and Headmistress Wenceslas nodded in gracious assent. Students were beginning to disembark from the Durmstrang ship, looking up at Hogwarts in awe. They wore heavy furs and long coats, and seemed to be struggling under these as they worked their way in a broken line up to the castle. Ahead of them strode a tall, thin man with a much less bulky coat.

"Ladies!" He smiled hugely in greeting to the two Headmistresses, waving a hand liberally festooned with rings.

"Most of those are fake, some were gifts," Sherlock leaned back to mutter to Mycroft.

"The coat is a sort of uniform, it has belonged to three Durmstrang Headmasters," the Head Boy answered his brother.

"Shoes… uncomfortable, but they're the only set he owns that match the coat. Dressing up for arrival,"

"Spent most of the voyage attempting to work the rudder, leaving the students to do the magic and clean up the ship for surfacing,"

"Sister in Azkaban, though not a particularly disreputable person in his own right."

"Assumes people think the worst of him, probably due to the sister, also perhaps the reputation of Durmstrang, but he… tries to correct that."

"So little need to be concerned with the possibility of cheating, then."

Mycroft arched his brows. "One can hope."

The Durmstrangs had reached the castle steps, some of them still gazing up at the castle, their heads flopping backwards like pez dispensers. One boy's large fur hat fell off, and several younger students giggled. Headmistress Hudson quelled them with a look, walking forward to open her arms to the Durmstrang Headmaster, her purple robes flowing behind her. "Charles," She smiled.

"Martha," He smiled too, his accent so thick it was nearly visible behind his shining white teeth. They met in a perfunctory hug before the Headmistress turned back to face her students. "Hogwarts students, please join me in welcoming the Headmaster and students of Durmstrang!" There was some applause, and the Durmstrangs fidgeted uncomfortably. Sherlock's attention had been caught by one particular boy, standing idly and staring at the crowd of faces in front of him. His glasses catching the light of the castle made it impossible to see his eyes, but Sherlock could see a sort of vague concentration in the set of his face, making him look as though he were reading. None of the other Durmstrangs were standing near him, either.

"What do you think he's doing?" Sherlock whispered back to his brother.

"Hm?" Mycroft had been responding amusedly to Greg's overexcited facial expressions across the crowd, but now he refocused his attention on his younger brother.

"The Durmstrang boy no one is talking to," Sherlock's indication undercut whatever the Headmistress was saying now, but no one seemed to be paying particular attention, as the Holmes brothers were not the only Hogwarts students speculating as to the new arrivals.

"The one who's reading the crowd?"

"Oh. I thought perhaps he'd bewitched his glasses." Sherlock sounded disappointed. Mycroft felt just a little sorry for him; his younger brother had yet to lose the childish wonder with which he regarded the world, expecting everything to be magical and clever and interesting. He was disappointed often.

Before Mycroft could reply, however, the crowd turned en masse and scattered, students from different Houses and years scampering together to chatter. They were all headed inward, and Mycroft surmised unhappily that the time for the feast had come. He hung back in the crowd, holding open one of the entry doors and watching for any students wandering off. He was Head Boy after all, delaying his entrance was completely justifiable. As students from the visiting schools began to pass, he overheard a very pretty girl with close-cropped dark hair exclaim in French to her friend about the research she'd done on the origins and design of Hogwarts. Her friend, a boy with an earring and blue hair to match his robes who wore a long-suffering expression, nodded in acknowledgement and continued looking around disinterestedly. Mycroft hoped he'd get to talk to the girl at some point; he'd read about the construction of Hogwarts ages ago and might enjoy a two-sided conversation about it. A group of first years ducked past, talking excitedly about the huge horses, and then the three Heads of the schools passed, Headmistress Hudson giving him a smile. He allowed the doors to close after a final glance over the now-empty grounds, quietly following the Heads to the Great Hall, where he moved unobtrusively to his seat.

"Surely you didn't think that by being the last student in the food would be gone?" Sherlock asked somewhat incredulously, his undertone of disapproval evident to Mycroft.

The auburn-haired Holmes raised his eyebrows, trying to respond nonchalantly even as he felt his shoulders tense. "Nothing of the sort, brother dear, merely fulfilling my duties as Head Boy. Perhaps if you took being a prefect marginally more seriously you would understand."

Slightly chastened, Sherlock dropped the subject. "Did you see the Beauxbatons boy with the blue hair?"

"My attention was more drawn by his companion, but continue." Mycroft looked around for her, spotting most of the Beauxbatons students farther along the Ravenclaw table. The Durmstrangs had elected to sit with the Slytherins and were shrugging out of their furs, bundling them across their laps.

"He thinks he's going to be Champion," Sherlock scoffed.

"You disagree?"

"Of course I disagree, his posture would indicate a shabby form for spellwork, not to mention that he can hardly stand the pain of having his helix pierced." The brunet rolled his eyes.

"Obviously," Mycroft wasn't paying attention anymore; Greg had caught his eye and was attempting to communicate using two spoons and Molly's hair bow. God only knew what he was trying to say, but it was making the corners of Mycroft's mouth turn up.

Headmistress Hudson stood up, and clapped her hands for silence. "Students of Hogwarts, Beauxbatons, and Durmstrang, welcome to the unofficial beginning of the Triwizard Tournament!" There was a burst of applause; she waited it out. "Tonight I have the pleasure of introducing to you all the three judges none of you know." The doors to the Great Hall opened again, and two wizards strode through, magicking a large, covered plinth between them. "Please welcome the Head of the Department of Magical Games and Sports, Mr. Hans Schmidt." The man on the left waved at the students as they clapped in welcome, smiling kindly. He had a sort of ageless face; he could've been anywhere between thirty and sixty. His shoes said he was closer to sixty, Mycroft thought. "With him is the Head of the Department of International Magical Cooperation, Mr. Andrew Havill." The second man, who had darker hair and a brighter smile, nodded graciously as the students applauded politely.

Once the pair had reached the raised platform where the Head Table stood, they parted ways, circling to their respective seats at the second right and left of the Headmistress' chair, beside the other schools' Heads. The covered plinth settled to the floor with a muffled bang, silencing the hall once more. "Of course, it is our third judge that most of you will be interested in." Headmistress Hudson continued, moving to stand beside the mystery object. "This is a powerful magical artifact, which will be choosing the Champions." She gripped the cloth tightly. "May I present… the Goblet of Fire,"

With dramatic timing that impressed even the Holmes boys and Moriarty, she removed the cloth with one fluid motion and blue flames sprang up from the otherwise unassuming wooden goblet standing on the plinth. A gasp went through the hall, and murmurs swept up every table. Headmistress Hudson stood silently beside the cup for a moment, smiling good-naturedly at the reaction of the assembled students, before Vanishing the cloth covering and clearing her throat to regain their attention. "The Goblet of Fire will be placed in the entrance hall until Halloween, at which time Champions will be selected. To enter, all an of-age student must do is write their name on a slip of paper and drop it in the Goblet. There will of course be precautions in place to assure that no student under the age of seventeen place their name in the Goblet of Fire, and I would ask every of-age student to give serious thought to the matter before entering their names, as the selection as Champion cannot be transferred or undone." She looked sternly around the hall, and the Goblet was moved away, back down the Great Hall and to its place in the foyer. "On Halloween, there will be a feast as usual, and the Champions will be announced. I think that's all for now…" She checked over her shoulder with the judges and other Heads, all of whom nodded. "Socialize, meet your new friends from other places!" She smiled again and clapped her hands together, food appearing on the tables as she swept back to her seat.

During the dessert course, Mycroft glanced up and down the table to be sure no one was paying them any attention. "Sherlock, I want you to be more careful about the Slytherins."

"You mean Jim."

"Yes."

Sherlock nodded, watching Moriarty's back over at the Slytherin table. "Why?"

Mycroft unfisted his hands from his napkin and tapped his fingers gently on the table. He wondered how much Sherlock knew or had guessed, and what to tell him. How to phrase the fact that his younger brother was his weak spot when it came to pressure situations was the other problem. That Moriarty knew this was even more troubling. The Room had been wholly mirrored, scratched at every angle, over and over, with the word "Sherlock" in Jim's huge, messy scrawl. Here and there had been crosshatches of the name in ink, or a shade of lipstick that may have been taken from Irene, but in all it did not bode well for his younger brother, and Mycroft had yet to decide how much to tell the younger boy about what he'd seen that morning. "He is… planning something."

Scoffing, Sherlock answered, "You think I don't know that? The amount of time he's been in the Room of Requirement? I keep trying to get it out of him, and Irene, but she doesn't know anything and he just asks me out." He rolled his eyes.

"Sherlock, I'm afraid this may be slightly more… serious." Mycroft lowered his voice. His younger brother's eyebrows came together.

"More serious than trying to open the Chamber of Secrets despite the fact that he can't speak Parseltongue, more serious than trying to incite a Centaur uprising, more serious than trying to breed illegal creatures in the Room?" He enumerated Moriarty's various schemes of the past four years, all narrowly foiled.

"You know we'd never be able to prove those were him. This, I think we would be able to. He's beginning to take precautions against me."

Sherlock frowned. "What kind of precautions? And what about me?"

"Perhaps he's blinded by his… obsession with you. He staged a warning for me, that he didn't mind using you against me I expect." Mycroft forced his tone into neutrality.

Nodding slowly, Sherlock said, "I see. I'll be careful, Mycroft, and I'll keep working on him."


	5. Mari the Beauxbatons Girl

Sherlock was worried. Worried over a lot of things at once- it was making him restless. He was worried over John, how he had just broken up with Jeanette and surely_, surely_ it was too soon for Sherlock to remark on the blatant attraction between himself and the wonderful blond Gryffindor boy. He was worried over whatever Jim was planning _this_ time, that Mycroft seemed to have an idea but wouldn't tell him, and worried over the fact that he'd seen Irene naked in the corridors twice now- he was sure there was something more sinister going on there than an interest in nudism. Sherlock was worried over Mycroft too- his subtle tricks to get his brother to eat were becoming less and less effective, the older boy spending more and more time with a discontented, pained look when there was no one else around.

Sherlock was also angry. There was nothing he could do about any of the things that worried him. If he confessed his emotions to John before the other boy was ready to hear anything romantic, he'd be dismissed out-of-hand and nothing more would ever come of it. He'd make their friendship unbearably awkward until John found himself another girlfriend and decided that she was better than Sherlock anyway. Jim's plot was still unclear, and Sherlock suspected that at this point he'd have to shag the Slytherin to get it out of him, something Sherlock was wholly unprepared to do. Irene was a prefect so he couldn't put her in detention, and it wasn't as though her slinking through the corridors at night without any clothes was something Sherlock could just casually mention to a staff member- especially not since she'd never been out on his patrol nights. He had absolutely no reason to be out of bed himself, and trying to present the scenario without receiving detention at best was an unlikely prospect. On top of it all he couldn't even help his own brother- Sherlock had tried talking to Mycroft several times: over the summer twice, then in Madam Malkin's when his brother had looked so uncomfortable Sherlock had thought the redhead might cry, and sometimes at Hogwarts before dinner or breakfast. He was met at each attempt with some variation of "No such thing, brother mine."

Sherlock sighed and ruffled his hair angrily, wishing John would be just a little more observant, just a little less flirtatious. He wished Jim would play fair and give him a clue, he wished Irene would be a little less inscrutable. He wished Lestrade would _bloody notice already_, because if there was anyone who could help Mycroft besides _Mycroft_ it had to be Lestrade. Mostly he just wished there was something he could DO about any of it. Inaction was his worst enemy and he knew it. Sitting still would be the death of him. For this reason, he often wondered why he hadn't been paired with a sycamore wand. He quoted Ollivander to himself as he thought, almost as a voiceover in the tangential thought; "The sycamore makes a questing wand, eager for new experience and losing brilliance if engaged in mundane activities. It is a quirk of these handsome wands that they may combust if allowed to become 'bored,'." Sherlock liked his wand very well, but damned if that didn't sound like the perfect wand wood for him. His own cedar wand seemed perfect too (and again the voiceover in his head) "Whenever I meet one who carries a cedar wand, I find strength of character and unusual loyalty… The cedar wand finds its perfect home where there is perspicacity and perception. I have never yet met the owner of a cedar wand whom I would care to cross, especially if harm is done to those of whom they are fond." Maybe he was destined to break this wand or somehow end up with more than one. An Acacia wand would be a fine thing- they were notorious for only performing for their owners, and only performing _well_ for witches and wizards possessed of excellent intellect. He sighed, turning his attention back to the task at hand.

Sherlock was currently in the Room of Requirement, taking all his frustration out on a banana he'd stolen from breakfast and now was wiring into an alchemy device he'd found broken in a corner and made a few adjustments to. He savagely hoped it would explode, though he wasn't sure how he'd justify being spattered with banana. He shrugged and snapped his goggles from Herbology over his eyes, figuring that if anything went wrong he could always blame the results on Peeves.

\

"So anyway, it was really just a misunderstanding," Sebastian finished with a shrug. Jim had told him to keep an eye on Sherlock today, but hadn't even told him what he was looking for- of course- so Seb had made a point of attaching himself to John Watson, a much better cover than being suddenly interested in Sherlock himself. They were all three on their way to Potions class together, Sebastian telling John about a third-year escapade into Hogsmeade with Jim.

"Weird, Seb. You two get up to weird stuff." John shook his head.

Sherlock snorted, thinking of some of the things he'd gotten into with John. Particularly the elephant in the Shrieking Shack.

"Yeah, okay," John swatted his arm. "We've had our share of adventure too," He laughed.

Sherlock smiled down at him, and Sebastian wondered if he was supposed to report to Jim about the glow between them or mention that they were engaging in some seriously intimate activities with their eyes, without either seeming to be fully aware of it. He rolled his eyes and looked away, catching sight of Jim just ahead, chatting to a pretty blonde from Beauxbatons. She looked… interesting. There was something off about her. Or maybe he was imagining it; _could be I'm jealous, her and Jim_. Seb ruefully wished he were Sherlock, so that he could tell what the source of his sense of misgiving about the girl was. Jim glanced away from her and met his eyes, acknowledging him with an exaggerated motion of his eyebrows. If Sebastian could've guessed what the Slytherin was thinking, it would've been along the lines of 'Hello sexy, watch what I'm about to do.'

Jim winked and slipped through a tapestry that covered a secret passage. The Beauxbatons girl walked toward Sebastian purposefully, with a tiny swing in her step like she was dancing on her secrets, moving to the music of that indefinable something Sebastian couldn't name. He definitely envied the girl.

He was about to say something to her when he realized that she hadn't been walking towards him after all. "Hello, John," The blonde's accent was so slight as to be nearly unnoticeable. "How're you?" She fell into step beside them, unceremoniously crowding Sebastian away. He moved without protest, curious to see Jim's plan unfold.

"Good, thanks," He smiled flirtatiously. "And you?"

She bit her lip softly as she grinned back with a wink. "Got any plans tomorrow night?"

"Nothing I couldn't heartlessly abandon,"

"Good; I think you ought to give me a tour of the grounds." She smiled.

"Excuse me," Sherlock's voice was icy. "John, if you would," He inclined his head, inviting John to walk with him to Potions much faster and decidedly without the new girl. Sebastian had to hide a smirk. This was what Jim had wanted to know, he was sure.

"You go on ahead, mate, I'll be right there," He turned back to the Beauxbatons girl, halting in the middle of the hallway. "Remind me of your name?"

"Oh, I'm Mari. Sorry- I asked someone yours, I should have realized you wouldn't know mine." She smiled and held out her hand to shake. He took it but turned it over and kissed it. She laughed; how stupidly romantic. "Nice to meet you, John," She smiled and looked over his shoulder. "Come by the Beauxbatons' carriage when you can; your friend seems anxious to get to class." She winked, and he flushed red.

"Right, okay. Yeah. See you tomorrow then." He grinned and turned to catch up with Sherlock, who began stalking haughtily away even as John turned towards him. Git. They left Sebastian behind as he paused beside Mari.

Sebastian couldn't help but chuckle, and Mari shot him an amused look. "Hiya, Tiger," She winked and stuck out the tip of her tongue, scrunching up her face mischievously.

"Nice to meet you Mari- Jim Moriarty is mine." He smiled, making sure it was just a touch feral.

She raised her hands in easy, good-humored defeat. "Calm down, Tiger, I don't want him. Just look at _that_ pair, hmm? You can keep Jim."

He grinned. Neat girl. He wondered what Jim wanted her for. "Better go. Nice to meet you." _I like you_.

\

"If I hide a body in the Room of Requirement do you think it will ever be found?" Sherlock wished he could slam the door of the Ravenclaw common room as he stomped in. Two younger students looked up nervously, but he was headed for Mycroft, sitting as usual in the corner armchair that provided the best vantage point from which to monitor the other students.

"That depends who's looking." Mycroft glanced disapprovingly over his textbook at his younger brother.

"Don't look." Sherlock instructed him, scanning the room for an unoccupied surface. The best he could find was the back of Mycroft's chair, and he leapt atop it, sprawling along the thin back and clinging for balance. "What do they do to the bananas here?"

"There is an enchantment placed on much of the fresh fruit to prevent it from rotting. Why do you ask?"

"Hm. Because I rotted one today. I may have accidentally lifted the enchantment."

"Not through ordinary magic?" Mycroft was intrigued, though he kept his tone one of understated curiosity. It would take more than a wave of a wand to lift any enchantments upon Hogwarts or its components, even the edible ones.

"No…" Sherlock confirmed thoughtfully, though he did not seem keen to say more on the subject.

Mycroft accepted this and went back to his essay, ignoring his brother strewn across his chair.

"Can I have my violin back yet?" Sherlock poked at Mycroft's hair absently. Red was such a strange color for hair to be. It was stupid. Stupid red hair. He was glad it was going to be bred out of humanity soon; _brunettes would rise to their rightful place of dominance!_ He sighed at his own mind's antics and nearly fell from the top of the armchair. His legs were already starting to go numb, dangling off like this.

"Are you going to treat it well?" Mycroft shook his little brother's hand off his head.

"Of course!" Sherlock sighed again. "Come on, give it back."

"Get it yourself." Mycroft said it in a tone of condescension that made Sherlock's lip curl with an impulse to fire something nasty back, but because he was getting his violin back he restrained himself. It had originally been a gift from Mycroft anyway. "Under my bed."

"Obviously." He flopped off the chair, hitting the floor with a thud that made most of the other students' heads swivel in his direction. Cherry grinned; the others rolled their eyes and went back to work as Sherlock scrambled up the boys' stairs on numb legs. A few moments later, the first strains of Fugue drifted down from the dorms. Cherry smiled again, swirling a "g" onto her parchment. The corners of Mycroft's mouth twitched up as he set his work aside; the sun was setting, which meant it was time for him to patrol the corridors.

\

Irene peeked around a corner. Excellent. She strode brazenly into the empty hall, completely nude besides the vial of memories around her neck. This was her first trip from the Slytherin common room to the prefect's bath without any clothing at all; it had gone uninterrupted. She wasn't sure whether to be pleased about that or not- she'd gotten reactions from some of the portraits, but it just wasn't the same as meeting another student would have been (though vastly preferable to meeting a teacher. They were always so in the way, didn't they understand that they had nothing she wanted?)

"Mint," She murmured to the door of the bathroom, and heard the lock click back. She swung the door open and ducked in to the bathroom, wondering if the sensation in her chest was relief.

"Um, hello."

Irene raised her head quickly, marshalling her expression into one of cool flirtation. She stood straighter. "Hello," She answered, looking around the room, but there didn't seem to be anyone to see.

"Up," The voice instructed, and she recognized it this time, relaxing even as her gaze moved automatically to the ceiling.

"Hullo, Myrtle," Irene moved to the giant sunken tub, turning on her favorite taps; one of them splashed against the empty pool with a gurgling sound that became more and more like music the longer it ran, another producing giant foamy cushions that were tinged a soft purple and smelled like lavender, the third emitting rainbow-colored splashes of a vanilla scent. "How're you tonight?"

Myrtle shrugged, floating down to sit on the edge of the tub across from Irene. "Oh, you know." Her voice was just as watery as always, though Irene noted that her cheeks seemed less tearstained than usual.

"Was Molly in, then?"

Myrtle nodded absently. "Yes, she talked to me while she had her bath."

"She seems nice," Irene offered, not really sure what to say. She'd always known _about_ Molly Hooper but never really _known _her, and she didn't know what to offer about the girl besides the one point that everyone agreed on. Besides, Irene didn't particularly like Myrtle, and wouldn't have bothered talking to her at all if the ghost hadn't initiated. Her bath was filling rapidly, and she climbed down into it, basking in the feeling of the warm water rising around her.

"And I don't seem nice?" Tears threatened on the edge of Myrtle's tone.

Irene backpedaled quickly. If Myrtle cried in a stall all night, it would ruin the soothing effect of what Irene had intended to be a lovely bath. "No no, that isn't what I meant. I just mean- Molly seems sweet, and- well, I just thought- I mean, that two nice people should be friends. That's- nice." She finished lamely.

Myrtle regarded her askance. "You know, _you've_ never seemed very nice. I don't think I want to talk to you anymore." Her voice was petulant, and she rose from the edge of the tub as Irene turned off the taps, privately relieved.

"Oh. Sorry, bye," She offered halfheartedly.

The only reply she got was a muffled, "Hmph!" As Myrtle zoomed off up a pipe, back to her own bathroom.

Irene shook her head, relieved, and laid back into the bubbles. She drifted with her eyes closed for a time, and when she opened them she was momentarily dazzled by the lights and reflections. Even after getting to use this bathroom for a year, she was a little awed by it sometimes. The chandelier, the lovely mermaid on the wall. Of course, she knew perfectly well what real mermaids looked like, but she had to admit that she rather liked the Disney version. She hummed to herself as she swam in lazy circles, occasionally pausing to properly wash.

When most of the bubbles had faded and the smell of lavender and vanilla was sufficiently layered over her skin, Irene climbed out and allowed the bath to drain. She grabbed a towel from the rack and set off for the Slytherin common room, enjoying the dripping sound of the water from her hair hitting the flagstones, looking down at her wet feet moving across the stones. She was halfway down a back staircase when she heard another set of footsteps join her. She pushed her shoulders back and walked tall, trying to look casual and imposing at the same time.

"Hello, Irene."

"Mycroft," She nodded to him as the intimidating Ravenclaw made his appearance.

"You're out of bed rather late."

It was just an observation, but something about his tone made a wave of cold run through her, and she overcompensated for her discomfort by grinning lasciviously at him, murmuring, "I was just having a bath. Lost track of the time,"

"Your clothing too, it would seem."

"Peeves' idea of a joke," She cooed back, flipping her wet hair away and catching the chain around her neck with her nails, drawing the vial above her towel. She saw Mycroft's eyes flicker down to it. "So if that's all… I can find my own way to my common room."

"I've no doubt," He said, but didn't seem to have any intention of allowing her to do so.

Irene scowled. Maybe he couldn't actually get her in trouble without exposing the contents of her darling bottle of leverage, but he could still annoy her. Fucking Holmses. This one made her spine straighter without her permission, as if his very aura prevented her from overstepping her boundaries. She found herself fighting the urge to clutch her towel tighter around her. "Really, Mr. Holmes, if you have other things to attend to…" She forced her voice to be easy and graceful even as her shoulders tensed.

"The first duty of Head Boy is to keep the other students of Hogwarts safe. I think this instance is a call to… chivalry." He sounded almost amused, and Irene hated him for it. Oh, she'd like to tell him the things she knew about Greg, just to watch his face, but once she said them she could hardly use them as insurance in the future. She sighed and bit her tongue, resolving to ignore him if he insisted upon walking her to her door like she was a child.

That was exactly what the intimidating Holmes insisted on doing, seeing her to the Slytherin common room and waiting until she had entered. Irene fumed. He wasn't even susceptible to her, damn him. She'd tried every tactic she could think of as he shadowed her through the silent castle, swaying her hips and moving her hair, exposing her shoulders and fluttering her eyelashes, but the only thing she'd received in return was more heavy, dignified silence. The Ice Man, indeed. He'd made her feel as though her every motion were mechanical, so obviously over-calculated and forced that it wouldn't work on anyone. She knew it did- she could bring Jim closer with a wink, draw Janine in over and over, even make Sherlock's mind stumble over itself if she wanted. But walking through the corridors with Mycroft, she couldn't even have control over the energy of the situation, his commanding presence overshadowing her so forcefully that she hadn't been able to loosen her grip on her towel even enough that he'd be forced to comment on indecency. The smug redheaded bastard had controlled her without so much as a word, and totally wrecked the calming influence that her bath had had. Damn him. Irene flung her towel over a chair by the fireplace and strode to her dormitory for a whole-hearted strop. 

Mycroft waited in the hall until Irene Adler was back inside the Slytherin common room, and then he paused a moment longer to carefully construct a Caterwauling Charm that would fade an hour before breakfast time, when the students were allowed out of their common room again. Satisfied, he turned away to resume his patrol of the castle. He checked his watch- only another hour. He sighed. On the one hand, it was good to have the exercise of walking around the castle, but on the other he desperately wanted to sleep. Sleep was when he got to be unaware of his body for a few hours, and oftentimes also completely unaware of his mind. He hoped death would be like sleep, and didn't see any reason why it should be anything besides a total unawareness of everything. That seemed very nice.

Patrol felt longer than usual. He had been having a bad day, made worse by the fact that he was having it at all. He loathed having to use such coarse, common terminology, and hated even more that he was susceptible to the folly of his own emotions. Something in him was dragging down, and it was peeling away every layer of himself. He felt that soon he'd be nothing but the projection he showed the outside world. He'd still be effective- clearly, even feeling as though the most productive thing he could do would be cry had not prevented him from easily dominating Irene, chiding her nonverbally and escorting her back to her dorm without incident. But it was so exhausting, to feel so hollow inside, his thoughts overlaid on an emotional wreck, and to still present to the world as collected and aware. He tried to be good at everything, tried his very best to be who he thought he should be- impeccable student, capable Head Boy, a brother to be looked up to, a perfect boyfriend. He'd spent the day answering the questions his teachers had posed, winning points for his house, shepherding other students, dealing with Sherlock as best he'd felt able, smiling whenever Greg looked at him. It was tiring to put up so many fronts at once when the only thing he really wanted to do was lose himself, preferably in a book.

"Hello, Mycroft,"

Ah, his relief had come early. He turned to acknowledge Professor Stamford with a nod. "Good evening, professor." Mycroft answered, careful to be polite and deferential. He plastered a slight smile on his face and relaxed his forehead, blinking away his former expression of tension.

"Evening, still?" Stamford checked his watch. "I feel as though it ought to have the decency to be morning, by now," He chuckled. "How's the patrol going?"

"Nothing unusual to report." He kept his smile up, feigning relaxation.

"Why don't you head to bed? I don't mind the extra hour; can't sleep myself," Stamford smiled good-naturedly at Mycroft, waving a hand in the general direction of Ravenclaw Tower.

Mycroft inclined his head. "Thank you, sir, but I feel I ought to complete my duties as Head Boy, particularly when there are so many additional students at Hogwarts."

"Devoted," Stamford remarked. "But it's really not necessary for us both to be up. Go on, go to sleep." He made another shooing motion, and Mycroft knew when to give in. There was nothing going on now, and besides, the way the professor was picking absently at his nails told Mycroft that Stamford had something he wanted to contemplate.

Mycroft smiled slightly wider, forcing it, hoping his face didn't look carved. "Thank you sir, good night to you,"

"Good night, Mycroft." Stamford smiled in return and turned away to patrol. Mycroft let his façade slide off and he stood for a moment, exhausted, feeling as though he'd like to allow his knees to buckle and let him fall to the stone floor. Surely it wouldn't be so uncomfortable to sleep there. Were he Sherlock, he probably would do just that, but Mycroft had slightly more decorum, and he dragged himself to Ravenclaw tower, refusing to slow down or appear tired in any way, regardless of the fact that he was alone. He felt empty again. Just because his mind could function at a higher rate and on a higher level than most didn't mean he didn't also function on the basics- at the moment he was having difficulty with any thoughts outside of _I'm tired, I'm fat, and I'm sad_. _How pathetic. Sleep would be so wonderful_.

Back in his dorm, the other two boys sleeping quietly, he discarded his trousers and pulled on his pajama bottoms, trying not to look at or touch his own skin. Halfway through pulling his pajama shirt over his head, he realized he hadn't removed his day shirt, and he sighed, giving up, dropping the pajama shirt back into its drawer and falling atop the blankets, barely awake long enough to chide himself for his lack of motivation.

\

"Get up, Anderson!" Greg shoved at the other boy's shoulder again. "Phillip! Up! Test today, time to study! Breakfast!"

"Nnght," Anderson rolled over and pulled the blankets up to his chin.

Greg sighed. "Molly Hooper is outside waiting to walk you to breakfast," He cajoled.

"Whhh?" Phillip sat up, pushing his jaw-length brown hair back with both hands. He slid out of bed clumsily, and Greg stood back smugly. "Hoow-" Anderson interrupted himself with a yawn. "How long has she been waiting?"

"She's not, she's at breakfast as usual." He smirked and shrugged. "You asked me to wake you,"

Phillip thought for a moment, rubbing at his eyes. "Oh, yeah… Thanks," He yawned again and began casting about for his clothing. Greg was of course already dressed, his shirt characteristically untucked, his tie loose. Anderson chuckled, a memory superimposed of Mycroft Holmes telling him off for dress code the day before, saying he was going to make a bad impression on the other schools.

"What's funny, mate?" Greg asked, looking up from collecting his books and shoving them in his bag.

"Just a mental comparison," Phillip pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. "You and Holmes. What the hell is even going on," He laughed.

"Sheer luck on my part and some kind of insanity on his," Greg smiled, tossing a book at Anderson. "That's yours, by the way, thanks for throwing it under my bed."

"Oh, I wondered where it went…"

Greg rolled his eyes. "Come on, get dressed. I'm starving."

"Go on without me, I'm not sure I'm hungry. I've got studying to do anyway," He shrugged into his shirt.

"Fair enough. See you." Greg smiled and left, the door closing on the sound of him greeting the other Hufflepuffs on his way through the common room.

"Morning," He dropped his hand on Mycroft's shoulder, caressing the base of his boyfriend's neck with his thumb. Mycroft's neck felt tense, but Greg didn't dare offer a massage in the middle of the Great Hall. Too scandalous, he'd think. "How was patrol last night?"

Mycroft paused. "Nothing too impressive." He shrugged. "Have you studied for the charms exam?"

"Damn it. Knew I'd forgotten something; I had way too much free time last night." Greg grimaced.

"Apologies, I should have reminded you,"

"No, no!" Greg smiled, squeezing Mycroft's shoulder. "I think I ought to go do that for a few minutes. See you in class,"

"Of course," Mycroft nodded, smiling up at the Hufflepuff boy. Greg moved away, and as he left he heard Mycroft say 'about Moriarty…' to Sherlock, and Greg was tempted to turn around and ask. He wished the two of them would tell him more. He was a prefect too, he ought to know if something was going on. Not today, evidently. At the Hufflepuff table, he settled down with his Charms textbook propped on a pitcher of milk. He knew he'd do alright, Charms was probably his best subject, and anyway he had it with Mycroft, so he took extra pains to impress his Ravenclaw. He smiled slightly, getting himself a plate of eggs and bacon while mouthing spells to review.

\

Janine wished she had a reputation for being mad, like Jim did. She glared at her breakfast. It was an off day for her, and she wanted to make a mess, to smash something, to toss her bacon at someone else and smush her porridge between her fingers. But she also didn't want to draw any attention to herself. If she were like Jim then no one would think a thing of her spattering her orange juice on the floor. They'd maybe move away slightly and mutter about her a bit, but no one would talk _to_ her. That was all she wanted. Let them talk about her if they pleased.

She snatched up a stack of toast and stormed out of the hall, trying to not so much _storm_ as _stride_. Crossing the grounds, she made a point of avoiding the Beauxbatons carriage, and circled around to the back of the Durmstrang ship so that it was unlikely for anyone to see her. She started flinging the toast into the lake, punctuating each toss with some sort of angry sound that didn't have any words. The giant squid scooped some of the bits of toast below the surface, and she wished it would come into the shallows and play with her, but it was probably too cold for her to go into the water anyway.

"Vat are you doing?" the voice was unexpected, and Janine reacted rather badly, flinging the last piece of toast toward the newcomer as she turned.

"Sorry! That was actually an accident," She apologized lamely to the sandy-haired boy in spectacles.

He shrugged. "You missed."

"Okay." She turned back to the lake, in no mood for international magical cooperation.

"Nothing in particular is wrong. But you are throwing toast at the lake." His enunciation became clearer as he spoke.

"Yeah, well maybe I _am_ mad!" Janine shouted, still facing the lake, wishing she had more toast. "Maybe I'm tired of being treated like tits and ass, maybe I want to feed the goddamn squid! Maybe I want someone to not underestimate me!" She whirled, angry, to meet the eyes of the now-smiling Durmstrang boy. "What's it to you? You can fuck right off!" She huffed, crossing her arms.

"Someone as interesting as you?" He shrugged. "Maybe I don't vant to underestimate you."

Janine quit yelling, blinked a couple of times. "What?"

"You spend so much time around the strange vuns, yet you seem to think you're fairly normal."

"How'd you know?"

He shrugged. "I am vun of the strange vuns." Again with that creepy smile. His eyes looked so dead.

"Yeah?" Her temper flared again. "Well then you can _definitely_ fuck right off, I'm weird enough on my own."

He didn't though, he just sat down on the grass and watched her sulk until she became too uncomfortable with his presence and dashed off, back to the Slytherin common room to sulk in her dorm until class.

\

Sally Donovan looked up when she heard sneakers on the stone of the entry way. Only Janine. She went back to her book: it was fairly dull, just another story where the one with the elder wand was evil and the painfully average boy got to kiss the painfully average girl. But it was better than nothing, and she'd finished studying. Not having a class to fill the time immediately after breakfast was so dull sometimes, she would go in the library and look through books that she figured might help her understand dangerous wizards.

While they were dating, Phillip had always laughed at her for wanting to be an Auror. Slytherins weren't Aurors, he said. _Well, fuck that_. Sally wanted to be an Auror, and if he thought a Slytherin wasn't going to get something she wanted just because it was always the brave Gryffindors who became dark wizard catchers, he was an idiot. A bigger idiot than she already knew him to be, that was. She dropped the predictable novel and stretched back on the sofa, pushing her fingers through her hair and blowing out a long sigh. She cracked her neck and lifted her head up again, fixing her gaze idly on her feet, resting on a low table. It might be fun to do something besides go to the library today, but she didn't really want to talk to anyone. Having a job would be nice, because she'd live on her own, probably in London, and when she ran out of tasks to complete she could just walk around, buy herself coffee if she wanted or find a bookstore. Muggles weren't distasteful to her; she actually found them fascinating. Surviving without magic was so quaint to her, yet they'd managed to make it powerful and frightening, large machines churning by, huge masses of metal they'd engineered to do a task that was simple if magic was involved. Cars were her favorite, it seemed so much more comfortable than a broom, if a little more regulated.

Adulthood sounded amazing. She sighed and slid her feet off the table, standing and stretching. Right now, some coffee sounded amazing. If she asked nicely, she knew the House Elves in the kitchen would give her some. She left the common room and wandered slowly down the deserted halls, eventually arriving in the corridor outside the kitchen. Pasting on a bright smile, she tickled the pear and entered, grinning and waving at one or two of the more familiar elves. "Could I get two cups of coffee, please?" She asked sweetly, the thought occurring to her that Molly might not be too busy. A visit with the subdued Hufflepuff might be nice. Sally had no idea why she liked so many members of Hufflepuff house, but it didn't much bother her. The Slytherins all knew she had ambition, if they didn't all approve of her goals, and she didn't catch any hell for her choices in friends. She smiled to herself, thinking, _Sally Donovan kicks ass. _

"Would miss like some biscuits, too?" One of the kitchen staff tugged at her robes, offering two mugs of coffee.

Sally took them gently. "Thank you. No, I don't think I'd be able to carry biscuits. Good thought though. See you later!" She stepped out through the portrait-covered entrance and made her way to the Hospital Wing.

"Hello, Molly," She called quietly as she toed the door open. The brunette looked up from a vial of potion she was examining.

"Oh, hi, Sally," She sounded surprised. "How are you?"

Sally shrugged. "I'm fine," She hefted one of the mugs, "brought you coffee, got a minute?"

"Sure," Molly set the vial down carefully, turning to poke her head into Healer Smallwood's office. "Sally's here, is it alright if I talk for a minute?"

A muted answer came, and Molly closed the door, approaching Sally with a smile and taking her coffee gratefully. "Thank you. So is there something you needed?"

"No, just felt like talking to you."

"Oh," Molly smiled brilliantly. "Okay then. So… how're things?"

"Fine, you know. Nothing fascinating going on. What do you think of all these other students?"

Molly shrugged. "I haven't really met many, but they seem nice enough. There's one Durmstrang boy who kind of freaks me out, but I don't even know his name, I've just noticed him looking at me weird a couple of times."

"The one with the glasses, yeah?"

"Yeah, is he odd?"

"A bit, yeah. Kind of… creepy. Like, no boundaries, but not in a scary or impressive way, just in this kind of off way like he thinks he can do anything. Almost a little bit pathetic, in my opinion, but some of the other Durmstrangs seem to actually be scared of him, so," She shrugged.

"Well, maybe he just doesn't know how to act. He might be a little bit… lost," She shrugged and looked away, taking a drink of her coffee. "Thank you so much for bringing me this, I could really use it today. I've got a test next period, and I was feeling exhausted."

Sally grinned. "Glad I could help," She smiled. "Excited for the First Task?"

Molly nodded vigorously, her pony tail bouncing. "I'm so curious what it could be, what do you think?"

"I dunno, I bet it'll be something pretty great though. I mean, what must it be that you have to be of-age to face down?"

"You going to put your name down?"

"I don't think so… I guess I'd like to do the Tasks, but I don't really want to be THE ONE to do the Tasks, you know? All that pressure."

"If I thought I had any chance at being chosen, I might go for it…"

"You'd have a great chance, you're a wonderful witch," Sally encouraged her. "If you want to put your name in then I'd say go for it!"

"You think?" Molly smiled softly.

Sally grinned back. "Definitely."

\

"Hey, Sherlock," Greg tapped the younger boy's shoulder at lunch.

Sherlock looked up, shaking his curls out of his eyes impatiently. "Yes?"

"Would you mind talking to Sally for a bit, mate? She's seemed a little off today, and, I dunno- I'm the one to talk to her most of the time, I don't want her to think I'm the only one who gives a rat about her."

Over Greg's shoulder, Mycroft's face melted the tiniest bit. Sherlock snorted at the smitten expression. "Sure, why not. What do you want me to say?"

"Thanks! I dunno, it doesn't matter, just 'hey' I guess. Only don't tell her I told you to talk to her, yeah?"

"Of course not," Sherlock stood up, grabbing his things. He wouldn't normally talk to Sally Donovan without decent reason, she wasn't very good at small talk and still called him "Freak," as she had done since they met, but he wanted to remain in Greg's favor, as the Hufflepuff was one of three people who didn't seem to be bothered overmuch by Sherlock's personality. Besides, he was dating Mycroft, and Sherlock figured he could extend his brotherly affection enough to spend five otherwise dull minutes indulging Greg.

"Hello, Donovan," He fell into step beside her as she left the Great Hall. John waved at him, trying to draw him over, and he regretfully tilted his head toward Sally.

"Hey, freak, what do you want?" It wasn't necessarily an unkind tone, and Sherlock refused to respond to the implied rudeness.

"How did you do on the transfiguration exam, then?"

"Wait, are you making small talk? Oh, this is good. Tell me I'm not a cover for one of your weird experiments."

"If this was a cover for an experiment, I'd have something a lot more interesting to talk about than your exam results." Sherlock sniffed haughtily. "As it is, I simply… noticed you looked… bored."

"And took it on yourself to entertain me?" She snorted. "Like I'd believe that for a half a second. Greg told you to talk to me."

It wasn't a question, so Sherlock didn't dignify it with an answer, choosing instead to discuss a different topic. "Been in the Hospital Wing, then. How's Molly?"

"How many times have I told you not to do that to me?" Sally didn't like the boy knowing things she didn't chose to tell him. "She's fine, now you've talked to me and Greg ought to be happy. See you later," She wrinkled her eyebrows and sped away, more impatient with him than usual. Not for any particular reason, just not in the mood to deal with a Holmes. She began climbing the stairs to Divination, wondering what it was about Lestrade that made him care so much about other people that he could handle dating the elder of the set. He must either be crazy or incredibly brave. _Hufflepuffs. Such a strange breed._

\

"John, wait!" Sherlock caught up with his friend, analyzing quickly. Not in his robes or uniform shirt, just jeans and a jumper, nicer shoes than usual- date. This was his date with Mari. He scanned. She must be outside. "What're you doing?" He feigned innocence.

"Uh, walking," John evaded. "Greatest mind of our year, you can't see me walking," He laughed. "I've actually got to go, Sherlock. See you 'round," He smiled again, and Sherlock could practically feel the Gryffindor's eyes lingering on his hair, his lips. He wanted to much to grab John and make it absolutely plain that when he said 'wait,' he meant 'stop.' Stop, get back here, let me love you.

"John, I-" Sherlock's speech halted somewhere between the back of his throat and the edges of his teeth. What was he supposed to say? 'I don't want you to get another girlfriend because I've realized that if I could choose one person to not hate me it would be you.' 'Please don't be attracted to cute blonde French girls, come like gangly Brit me.' No.

"Go hang out with your friends." John said, turning away, turning back to where Mari waited. Sherlock could hear the note of- betrayal? Was that the right word? _John_ felt betrayed? By what- Sherlock spending time with Jim Moriarty at the behest of his brother and apparently the entire fucking country, or by Sherlock spending time with Sally at the behest of Greg who basically only got to ask Sherlock to do things because he was dating Mycroft? Excuse him for wanting to stay in the good graces of the two people besides John who tolerated him.

Sherlock swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. "I don't have friends," He said quietly to the flagstones. He had a brother, who was always busy with better things and only sometimes condescended to teach his younger brother a lesson. He had Jim, always willing to taunt him and try to corrupt his thoughts or kiss him. Not something Sherlock cared to participate in, especially not with someone he only associated with to try and stop from doing exceedingly nasty things. He supposed he had Janine on occasion, but she said herself that they weren't friends. "I've just got one," He admitted in a low voice, looking up to realize that John had gone. _Maybe I've not even got that many_.

"Looking down, Sherl," The nickname was familiar, the voice was too sing-song. Dammit, Jim.

"Hello Jim," Sherlock promptly rearranged his features into the closest echo he could manage of Mycroft's 'come hither that I may better demean you' expression.

Moriarty strolled closer. "Doing anything?"

"Patrolling the corridors." It _was_ technically his night on duty as prefect.

"Excellent; my night too. I'll join you."

Sherlock inclined his head. "If you like."

"Of course I like, my dear," Jim gestured for him to walk on, and Sherlock resisted the desire to look over his shoulder at where John must be, turning sharply and stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"Now I don't mean to brag, of course," Jim started, following languidly after Sherlock, "But is that a cedar-with-phoenix feather core, ten and a quarter-inch wand in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"

Sherlock removed the aforementioned wand from his pocket, handling it deftly. "The former, Jim," He intoned coldly, in no mood for Moriarty's games. Besides, he wasn't even good at pick-up lines; he got them all from Sebastian.

"Dear me, not in a mood for games, are we?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Is it because John Watson's dating a girl?" He stretched out the word 'girl,' making it sound absolutely ludicrous. "He's going to keep doing that, you know. So you might as well give up. Come on, I'll make it up to you," He circled around in front of Sherlock, walking backward to face the stone-faced Ravenclaw.

"Nothing of the sort, Jim."

"Well, if you're not distracted, let's play. Let's plaaaay, Sherlock. Let's have a game," His eyes widened and his mouth formed an 'o' on the 'a.'

"What do you suggest?"

"Let's have a problem. A logic problem. A guessing game."

"Wonderful, I'll think of something, and you don't guess." Sherlock was impatient. He just wanted to patrol, have a strop, and go to bed. Was that really too much to ask, after today?

"Now, now. Right, I'm thinking of something; I'll give you a hint, it's not John Watson kissing Mari Morstan."

Sherlock's hand clenched around his wand. "Are you sure you wouldn't rather play a different game? I know- you hold your breath and I'll recite _Hogwarts, a History_."

Moriarty pouted. "Come on now, don't be a spoilsport. If you don't want to play a logic game- and how dull is that, you're so _ordinary_- we could play a different sort of game. A kissing game," he bounced his eyebrows.

"And what exactly will you tell Sebastian, hmm?" Sherlock's limited patience ended. "What will you tell your darling Tiger with his well-earned stripes and his lovely little roar, what will you say when he finds out? And he will find out, I'll tell him. Or I'll have Irene tell him, or- ooh, I could bite your lips and make them swell up. I could leave a hickey on your neck, how would that be?" He talked fast, tossing his words out in a tone that wasn't so much abrading as mocking, with an undertone of real anger.

Jim's expression had darkened more and more as Sherlock spoke, but his voice was smooth when he answered, "That last one, got to admit that's sexier."

"Why don't you go patrol your own route, and tell me in the morning whether you'd still rather kiss me than Tiger. Tell me in front of him, or it doesn't count."

Jim turned abruptly and sauntered off.

Sherlock exhaled angrily. He'd probably just blown his last chance at finding out what Moriarty was planning, but at the moment he didn't really care. And Mycroft would have a backup plan. Mycroft always had a backup plan.

\

\

Author's Note: Sorry about the character whiplash going on for a while, I was using line breaks that didn't merge with the formatting of this site. Mea culpa, my darlings!


	6. Quidditch Match: Gryffindor v Ravenclaw

John stretched, popping his neck and flexing his hands. "Morning," He yawned to Seb.

The other boy was still leaning against the corner poster of his bed, facing the window, where he'd been when John went to sleep. He didn't understand; Sebastian had always been so offhand about his relationship with Jim Moriarty, even trying to mess it up with Irene, yet now that something had evidently happened, he was acting like the protagonist in a shitty romance novel. "Morning," He muttered back to John.

"Ready for the game?" If their keeper was too busy staring dramatically at clouds to block the goals, John would be severely pissed. It was hard enough winning against Sherlock as it was, if they couldn't stop the rest of the Ravenclaw team they'd be truly screwed.

"Of course, John, I'm not that incompetent."

"Just checking that you're alright, mate," He rolled out of bed, wondering whether an awful pun or something might lighten the mood. Seeing Sebastian's red eyes, he decided against it, clapping the other boy on the shoulder and moving to get dressed. He was nervous, but only a little. If he won, he'd have to endure Sherlock's halfhearted sulking for a few hours, and he'd probably impress Mari. If he lost, he'd have to endure Sherlock's halfhearted teasing for a few minutes, and he'd probably impress Mari only slightly less. She seemed to really like him, and he liked her pretty well too. She was a wonderful kisser, and she was fun. Energetic, playful- it was nice. Sherlock had been too busy for him for the past week or so, and even in potions class sometimes he was distracted. Having someone's attention fully focused on him was nice. Mari was nice. _I'm repeating myself_.

"Good morning, handsome," Mari was waiting for him beside the entrance to the Great Hall. "You've got a game today," She kissed him on the nose, and he chuckled, brow furrowing in mild confusion. That was weird. Do people actually do nose kisses? Apparently so.

"Yeah, um, I do." He waited for an explanation of the odd nose-kissing thing, but none came. He took her hand and they walked into the hall, Mari settling down cross-legged on the bench at the Gryffindor table next to John.

"Excited?" She asked, pouring herself orange juice.

"Very. I love quidditch, and playing against Sherlock is always fun. He's really great, and him tipping off the rest of his team makes them pretty good too, even if they'd never admit that's what does it," He chuckled. "Ravenclaws are a bunch of snobs sometimes,"

Mari swatted his knee. "Now now, don't generalize."

"Come on, it's true, they all think they're so smart and that they value intelligence, 'Wit beyond measure,' and all that, and then when someone smarter than them comes along- like Sherlock- they all make fun of him. It's not nice,"

"No, it isn't, is it…" She bounced her legs. "I'd like to meet him. Sherlock. He seems interesting, everyone talks about him differently. And he's your best friend." She smiled.

He liked that things like this didn't seem like too big of steps with her. Something that might be a big deal with another person- like the way the girl before Jeanette had wanted him to take care of her owl- were fun with Mari. She made everything lighthearted. "Okay, yeah. I'll introduce you. When he's not about to hand my ass to me in quidditch," He chuckled again, and she laughed too.

\

Sherlock entered the Great Hall and started toward the Gryffindor table to wish John luck, but backtracked a moment later when he saw the blond boy sitting with Mari, laughing. Jealousy spiked through him and he turned away angrily, wishing he'd taken his chance before John got another girlfriend. This one seemed more serious, too. It had only been two weeks and now they saw each other every day, and John talked about her in potions all the time. Sherlock hated that, the only time he got to spend with John some days, because of Mycroft or homework or prefect duties- and the Gryffindor spent it chattering about Mari as if he could think of nothing better.

He retreated to the Ravenclaw table and smiled blankly back at Cherry when she greeted him with a grin. Janine stopped behind him for a moment, ruffling his hair before she noticed he wasn't paying attention, and Irene came in a few minutes later, seating herself on his lap and whispering, "I've got a bet on Gryffindor, so you'd better come by my dorm later," pressing herself against him and kissing his cheek to make her meaning clear. He didn't move. She was dull, they were dull, and Jim wasn't around, off in the Room of Requirement since yesterday. Sherlock wished he could get in there while Jim was in, and kept trying to win the Slytherin's good favor so he could see. He wanted to know, and Mycroft wanted to know, and evidently someone 'very important, brother mine' who corresponded with Mycroft wouldn't mind knowing either.

Sherlock only jumped when Mycroft snapped his fingers in front of his face. "Sherlock,"

"Yes?" His head snapped around to meet his brother's eyes. His mouth twisted. He hated it when he jumped at his brother's command so automatically, like a puppy starving for attention. He did enough for the redhead, as it was.

Mycroft pretended not to notice Sherlock's responsiveness, casually continuing. "Gregory has bet me that you'll lose. Do try to prove him wrong." He smirked.

Nodding, Sherlock answered, "Mm. Winning has always been the plan, Mycroft. Despite Irene's attempt at a bribe." He picked at his food, thinking of John.

"Sherlock," Mycroft hesitated. "Caring… is not an advantage."

It was easy to read the pity in his eyes, and Sherlock hated him for it. "Go away."

Mycroft paused, about to say more, but left Sherlock to his sulking.

\

"It isn't fair, you've got a man on the inside and I haven't," Greg observed teasingly, bumping his shoulder into Mycroft's as they stood in the entrance hall, watching the rest of the school make their way to the quidditch pitch, talking excitedly to the students from other schools, some of whom had chosen a side to cheer for.

"Having a brother is hardly my fault, and I can't be blamed for his choosing to play quidditch," Mycroft reminded him in light tones. "And anyway, you could try Jennifer Wilson, or Wiggins, or Anthea."

"Right, yeah, I could try the girl whose sister Sherlock saved, the boy who you share a dorm with and Sherlock taught to deduce, or the girl who plans to spend her career in the department you plan to head. I'll have no problems convincing them to lose," Greg bantered back, catching Mycroft's hand and twining their fingers together.

Mycroft squeezed Greg's hand shyly. "I suppose you could always egg on the Gryffindor team, which I suspect you'd have more success with than with trying to blackmail- _persuade_- a Ravenclaw to sabotage," He chuckled quietly.

Lestrade laughed. "Let's go do that then, come on, I've just seen John Watson go by."

\

Walking to the pitch with Mari, their hands swinging jauntily between them as she talked about life in France, John started to get his first pre-game jitters. He always felt a bit nervous before a game, particularly one he had to play against Sherlock, but this time the nerves seemed out of balance with the rest of his emotions- he actually felt like he might need to develop some sort of temporary tic to dispel all the extra energy. He started to twitch the hand that wasn't holding Mari's, his left, curling and uncurling it just for something to do. It was so odd, but he hadn't really talked to Sherlock in a while and felt like maybe this game would feel off- not like it was any fun. "John?" Mari asked, and he realized he ought to be paying a little more attention.

"Sorry, I was, erm- thinking about the game. Guess I'm a bit nervous," He laughed.

"It's okay, I just didn't want to be boring you," She ducked her head with a smile, brushing her hair behind her ears.

He smiled back. "You're not, not at all. I always thought it'd be interesting to visit France, it's cool to hear what it's like to live there."

"Well, when I'm finished you'll have to tell me all about England, no?"

"Of course I will, though I bet it'll be dull- I'm not from London, countrysides everywhere must be pretty much the same, right?" He smiled at her.

"John!" He turned around when he heard his name called, to see Greg Lestrade jogging up and Sherlock's brother trailing behind, looking as aloof and stuck-up as always.

"I'll just be going," Mari said, slipping her hand out of John's grasp. He looked at her, starting to say she didn't have to go, but she nodded toward Holmes and turned away. "Look for me in the stands, I'll be the one cheering the loudest for you," She smiled over her shoulder.

"John, mate," Lestrade greeted him heartily, giving him one of the brightest smiles John had ever seen. "Good luck!" He bent close and conspiratorially muttered, "Mate, I've got a bet with Myc; clobber Ravenclaw for me will you? It'd be great."

"Um, yeah, I was going to," John said, confused but smiling anyway. What, did Greg think that John aimed to lose every quidditch match? He'd have beaten the Ravenclaw team's arses even if he hadn't been told to. Weird fucking request. John craned his head around to look whether he could catch Mari for a quick snog before the game.

"Right well," Greg stood straight again as Mycroft reached them, standing politely a step behind Greg and to his right, where he wasn't forcing himself into the conversation. _At least he has tact_, John thought. "Good luck," Greg smiled.

"Yeah, er, thanks Greg," He said, confused. "Was there something else you needed me for, or anything?"

"No, nope, just wishing you luck. Giving encouragement, you know." He continued grinning

"John, if you'd like to distract my little brother, I suggest you simply shout his name." Mycroft's mouth curled into one of his I-know-something-you-don't smiles. "That should be enough to take his attention off the game." Greg chuckled, catching Mycroft's hand and smiling up at him.

John stared back at the two of them for a moment before shaking his head and leaving with an awkward half-wave. Mycroft Holmes was a weird one. And Greg Lestrade; what on earth must he be thinking? Two years and not yet completely mental, the guy deserved a medal or something. He jogged after Mari, who wasn't all that far ahead. Her blonde hair was easy to pick out- and it looked like she'd found Seb Moran, that was good. _Maybe she can cheer him up_, John though. _If anyone can, it's got to be her. _He smiled.

\

"It's cute that you help me undermine Ravenclaw," Greg chuckled as they watched John leave and jog to try and catch up with Mari. "You're going to lose the bet, you know," He wiggled his eyebrows.

Mycroft grinned at him for a moment, then pulled his face together into a teasingly superior expression. "I'm sure Ravenclaw will pull through without my support." He really, _really _hoped that the Ravenclaw team would all simultaneously forget how to play quidditch and stand on the pitch holding their broomsticks like first-years. The bet was that if Gryffindor won, Gregory got to kiss Mycroft. If Ravenclaw won, Mycroft got to kiss Gregory. _There are no losers in this bet, only different degrees of winning_, Mycroft thought. He was sure that either way would be completely _acceptable_, but he much preferred not to have to be in control of how long they kissed or any of the other aspects.

"Oh, I don't know how _anyone_ pulls through without your support," Greg smiled and squeezed Mycroft's hand again. Mycroft smiled back softly and they continued on their way to the stands, where Greg had agreed to join the Ravenclaw section.

\

Sebastian was walking down to the quidditch pitch alone, seething. He'd moved passed being upset, and was now simply angry. His hands tucked into fists, and he hoped that Ravenclaw was especially on-point today so he'd have the pleasure of spiking their shots away from the goal posts. Punching the quaffle would be an acceptable pastime, for now.

He jumped as a vaguely familiar chipper voice sounded behind him. "You look like a raincloud,"

"Wha-! Oh, Mari," He cleared his throat. "Hi."

"Something happen there, Tiger?"

"Don't you fucking call me that," His voice lowered dangerously, and his hand twitched but he couldn't decide whether to go for his wand or a punch.

"Wow, calm down," She raised her hands in surrender, eyebrows rising too. "What the hell happened?" Her accent was slight, and Sebastian thought he liked the way it made swear words sound. He might spend a while in France and pick one up, he thought. It wasn't that far by tube, he could probably spend the holidays there without too much fuss. Tell his parents he was staying at school, tell the school he was going home, ride the Express to London and find his way across from there.

"Nothing happened, go away." _Jim waited until I was almost to the Great Hall to grab that arsehole Sherlock Holmes and tell him he was the only one Jim ever wanted to kiss because he was so fucking __**entertaining**__, so __**diverting**__, so __**special**__. Fuck that. Fuck all of that. Fuck that one Irishman in particular._

"Come on, something happened, maybe I can help?" She ducked in front of him, looking collected and concerned. She really wasn't scared. Like Jim wasn't scared, like Irene wasn't scared. Sebastian was a little angry; what was the point in being intimidating if no one was intimidated?

"Not unless you want to break up with John Watson and date me to make someone jealous," He said sarcastically, the venom in his voice directed at the back of Jim Moriarty, swaggering next to Sherlock Holmes far ahead. His spirits lifted slightly, vindictively, when he saw Holmes stubbornly refusing to hold Jim's hand.

"Woah now," John dropped out of his jog with an exhale. "Let's not be going too mad, mate." He grinned and took Mari's hand. "Sorry about that, dunno what that pair really wanted. Playing more mind games with each other, I expect. Sherlock says they were madness over the summer."

"Oh, _does_ he?" Sebastian sneered. "Well maybe that's where he took his lessons then, huh? _Mind games with the Holmes brothers_. Wonderful." His voice dripped disgust and outrage.

"Um, Seb? What's up, mate?" John looked way up to meet the towering Keeper's eyes. "You're gonna be good for the game, yeah?"

"Nothing is _up_, John, and yes. I'm going to be the best damn Keeper you've ever seen. If they score one fucking point you can feed me to the Venomous Tentacula." He marched off.

\

John strode onto the pitch, followed closely by the rest of his team, slightly blinded by the bright-grey sky. He met Sherlock at the center of the field, wondering what the Ravenclaw could have said to his team in the way of a pep talk to make them glare at his back like that. He squinted up at the pale brunet and offered a smile. The smile he received in return was almost brighter than the sky, and John put out his hand to shake. Sherlock took it, long fingers wrapping around John's hand and holding on for just a heartbeat too long. John wondered again if the younger boy knew he did things like that- things that could easily be mistaken for flirtatious. If he were a girl, John probably would have thought he were coming on and asked him out a long time ago. Thank god they'd all been spared the debacle of _that_ rejection. Sherlock was a bloke, a bloke with no sense of social propriety, but uninterested in John Watson nonetheless.

They all mounted their brooms, Clara blew the whistle, and they were in the air. "The game is on!" Sherlock shouted at him with an enthusiastic smile, flying close to John and then zipping off with an ostentatious twirl to begin searching for the snitch. John laughed and watched him go, hoping their Seeker would beat him out. He looked around to see if he could spot Mary, as Ravenclaw had grabbed the quaffle and it wasn't his place to get it back. He noticed her blonde hair in the back of the stands and waved, then pulled his broom around in time to see Sebastian head-butt the quaffle away from his goal posts. _He really __**is **__upset_, John thought as he tracked the red ball now hurtling up the pitch. John looked up to check that he wasn't about to be dive-bombed by Sherlock- it'd happened before, the Ravenclaw dropping like a rock and grabbing John as he passed. They'd both ended up with sprains, and Sherlock had cracked his clavicle, but Madam Smallwood fixed them both up fairly quickly. Still, the game had been a total loss, and John was keen to avoid a repeat. Satisfied that the sky above him was clear, and eventually spotting Sherlock on the other side of the pitch anyway, John felt that it would put his team at no disadvantage now if he took the quaffle. As he made his decision, the red ball came within his sphere of control and he urged his broom into its flight path, caught it and turned sharply, beginning to weave and bob, changing altitude fast. He went from being at Sherlock's level where he circled above the action to having his toes nearly skimming the grass, popping back up to the level of the goal hoops just as Anthea caught up to him, easily dodging her and lobbing the quaffle past Wiggins, who looked as though he might have been distracted by something. A cloud, John figured with a snort, turning back to the game.

As it turned out, Wiggins had been watching something much more tangible than a cloud. Something that was currently colliding painfully with John's stomach, winding him and pushing him toward the tail of his broom. He scrabbled at the handle, coughing, able to hear the crowd's collective gasp as his mind inexplicably fixated on the announcer as he replayed what had just happened. "... And he's still on, ladies and gentlemen, I don't think I've ever seen a Chaser take a bludger so well, John Watson of Gryffindor still in play, but it's Ravenclaw in possession of the quaffle, Sherlock Holmes bossing everyone around as usual-"

John laughed at that as he heard the echo of Stamford's voice chiding the announcer, but he quickly stopped listening to what was going on between Wilkes and Stamford in the stands as he was recalled to the pain in his own body, clutching his stomach and breathing hard, trying to get reseated on his broom and keep his eyes on the quaffle. It was at the other end of the pitch now, and no one was paying John much mind, except Sherlock. The brunet was shouting at him, streaking towards him and paying no attention at all to where the snitch might be. Stupid git, he was going to throw the game and then his team would hate him more than ever. John heaved himself straight, waving a hand to show that he was fine, trying to get Sherlock to go away.

Sherlock ignored John's signaling, continuing on his beeline path for the Chaser. John leaned flat on his broom and shot forward and down, trying to avoid his friend. "What are you doing, you idiot?" John shouted as Sherlock prepared to spin again, the crown gasping and pointing, even some of the other players stopping to watch the rogue Seeker. Sherlock shouted back, "Making up for everything!" he shot at John again, making the blond roll and drop a good ten feet, the maneuver making his stomach pitch. Upside down, he could see Clara and two beaters from opposing teams coming at them, and he prepared himself to get an earful. Sherlock was still talking, however; "Making up for the idiocy of our beaters, for my mistakes, and your own lack of observational skill!" this time John thought that the Ravenclaw was actually going to hit him as he plummeted down, and he didn't think he had the time or fortitude to move far enough so braced himself to take the blow, locking his arms around his broomstick and squeezing his eyes shut. He heard a crunch and a small cry of pain from the Ravenclaw and opened his eyes, confused. Sherlock's broom was nowhere to be seen, yet the Seeker was still in midair, curled in on himself with a mask not unlike Mycroft's clamped firmly over his features. It took John a moment to register that the thing Sherlock was so determinedly clinging to was a bludger.

A moment later, he realized the danger the lanky boy was in; if the bludger bucked him off or changed course suddenly, or decided to plummet to the ground, Sherlock would have no broomstick between him and the surface of the pitch. John hauled himself back aboard his broomstick properly, flying under Sherlock, matching trajectories with the black ball. "What the hell d'you think you're doing?" he shouted to his friend.

"Nothing," Sherlock's reply was sarcastic, but John could hear pain in his voice.

"Well, quit hanging around! Drop, I'll catch you!" he looked down- suddenly it seemed an awfully long way, though Clara and the beaters were circling below, keeping up as best they could.

"Can't let go!" Sherlock shouted back. "Rogue bludger! It'll come after you again!"

"Well," John tried frantically to think of something to do. "Can you stop it?"

"If I can reach my wand!" Sherlock shouted back, sounding doubtful as the ball he was curled around changed course, sluggish under his extra weight but still aiming for John. One of Sherlock's legs slipped out of the careful alignment he'd got himself into, the other following by force of kinetics. He was left to cling tightly to the ball with only his hands, drawing it against his chest and wrestling atop it, feet kicking in midair. The audience gasped, and John wondered for a moment whether they were on Sherlock's side in his scuffle with the bludger or not. His heart seemed to be trying to choke him as he watched the brunet struggle. "Sherlock!" he screamed, at a loss to do anything else as he watched the younger boy fight in midair for his balance and his wand, the bludger under him making a slow circle back at John.

"It's alright, John!" Sherlock shouted back, now perched sideways on the tiny ball, face drawn in a way that made John think that the brunet had a broken rib or two smashed against the bludger. "I've nearly got it!"

John still circled worriedly, now dropping slowly lower and lower, trying to get the bludger to follow him down without plummeting or rolling Sherlock off. The black ball was clumsily on his trail, and John was almost low enough that he could tell Sherlock to jump again and be reasonably certain that his broom would slow the two of them enough to avoid any more injuries.

However, Sherlock seemed to have other ideas. He'd managed to pull his wand out and now was waiting with it clenched in his fist for the bludger to come out of its turn so he could let go enough to point his wand at it. Almost as if it could sense this, the bludger rolled sharply and made a beeline for John, who watched in shock as Sherlock fell. He urged his broom forward, chasing after the Seeker, who had time for one spell before he hit the ground. "Immobulus!" he shouted, wand pointed at the bludger over John's shoulder. The Gryffindor caught at his wrist a moment later and braked hard, but it wasn't enough to stop Sherlock hitting the ground with a crunch that made John's stomach lurch. He landed and leapt off his broom, kneeling beside his friend.

"Sherlock? Can you hear me mate?"

"John...?" Sherlock's voice was quiet, but his eyes opened a bit and he forced a smile. "Could use the Hospital Wing, I think," his smile quickly became a grimace.

"Right, yeah." John looked around uselessly; everyone else's attention was back on the game, even Clara distracted as Seb seemed to have headbutted a Chaser rather than the quaffle. John refocused on Sherlock, aware that they weren't going to get any outside help. "Do you think you can walk?" He asked, checking the brunet's pulse and pupils. "no concussion, lucky for you."

Sherlock let out a tiny groan. "I don't think I'll be walking anywhere- neither of my legs are," he paused to suck in a deep breath. "-In any sort of working order."

"We need help, if you can't walk. I can't carry you without hurting your ribs or your legs." John wasn't going to panic, he was determined not to let the sight of Sherlock so obviously in pain make him panic.

Sherlock's weak smile was back. "Your broom, John. Assuming you don't know how to conjure a stretcher."

"Oh, and you can I suppose," John said, retrieving his broom. It couldn't be too bad if Sherlock was teasing him. Then again, Sherlock was always determined to have the last word, even against his injuries.

"Of course I can, Mycroft taught me how last year. Though why he thought I'd want to know..." Sherlock trailed off with a wince.

"Okay, how can I help you?" John asked, squatting beside Sherlock as the Ravenclaw pushed himself into a sitting position.

"I think I'll just hang on to it." Sherlock said, reaching for the broom. John handed it to him willingly and stood, hands out as though he could catch Sherlock if the brunet fell backwards, clinging to the broom as it drifted toward the small medical tent on the edge of the field.

\

"Do you want to go down there?" Greg asked, watching John Watson shepherd Sherlock off the field.

"And interrupt their time together?" Mycroft said, arching his brows in mock-disbelief. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "You have no tact, Gregory."

"Right, because the medical tent is the _most_ romantic setting," Greg rolled his eyes and grinned back before turning his attention back to the game, in shambles now that Ravenclaw was missing a Seeker and one of their Chasers had been headbutted, Gryffindor lacking a Keeper as he'd been given what Gregory still thought of as a red card, and of course John was absent so the team's strategy was in chaos. All that plus the immobilized bludger at one end of the field and at this point, Greg was just hoping for any victor at all. He watched Anthea score a goal, worried about Sherlock but somewhat reassured by Mycroft's calmness.

\

Jim sighed, leaning back in his seat very slightly. Of course Sherlock had got in the way. He'd hoped the Ravenclaw would be distracted searching for the Snitch, or would underestimate the bludger, but of course he'd done neither, flinging himself in front of John bloody Watson. It hadn't been easy, getting ahold of that bludger, either. All the quidditch balls were kept in Clara Watson's office. After an attempt to get through only to be foiled by a Supersensory Charm, Jim had had to go in and actually talk to her, and nick the bludger from right under her nose. And then smuggle it back in the same way. Normally he would've had Seb do it, but... He grimaced at the line of thought, eyes darting down to where Tiger sat on the edge of the pitch, kicked out of the game. His eyes darted up for a moment and Jim stared harder, as if Sebastian would be able to pick him out from amongst the hundreds of other faces turned in his direction. He couldn't, of course, and Jim's face scrunched in annoyance.

He paused, no longer thinking solely of his ruined plan to incapacitate Watson. Sherlock had shown whose side he stood on when the final curse had been cast. _The side of the angels_, Jim snorted. _Booo-ring. It might be worth writing him off as a lost cause, treating him as an enemy- or at the very least, not as a friend._ He frowned, considering this. Sherlock was the only one smart enough and willing to properly entertain him, even if it did take some cajoling. Would he be an equally entertaining adversary? It _was_ an awful lot of effort Jim had put into getting a mere kiss, and he'd had to ruin his hold on Sebastian for it, and now Sherlock threw himself in front of Watson again... Jim sighed. He could think of several options that would be a lot less effort. Across the field, Sebastian looked up again, and this time Jim waved. It was simple cost/benefit analysis. He could be entertained for a while by playing Seb off Sherlock over him, then he'd get to have a hot boyfriend willing to do anything he wanted and a clever adversary to keep him entertained. Jim smiled, watching the Gryffindor Seeker change course abruptly, relieved that the game was about to end and he could go and talk to Seb.

\

"Gryffindor win! Ten points up on Ravenclaw!" Sebastian Wilkes' voice sounded through the bleachers, and Greg immediately turned to Mycroft with sparkling eyes and a smile.

"I think we know what that means," He said, his fingers landing playfully on Mycroft's knee as he leaned closer with a smirk.

"Indeed," Mycroft affirmed, swallowing hard. Greg's hands were very, _very_ rarely anywhere below Mycroft's waist. The sensation was new enough that the warmth it generated mingled with some kind of near terror, though not as bad as the time on the train when he'd pulled Mycroft into his lap. The redhead felt himself blush just recalling that- he wasn't sure whether he'd liked it or not, being too worried that he was going to cut off the circulation in Gregory's legs or that the Hufflepuff boy would say he was too heavy. He'd been more thankful than disappointed to be pushed off. Mycroft's attention was snapped back to the present Gregory as his fingers tightened slightly on Mycroft's knee.

Greg looked hesitantly at Mycroft, and leaned in close. His lips gently found Mycroft's, and the Ravenclaw couldn't help but lean into Gregory, even though he knew he shouldn't. It became their longest kiss to date, Greg's hand finding the side of Mycroft's face, cupping his jaw. He sighed softly against the Ravenclaw's lips, and Mycroft found himself wanting to deepen the kiss despite the fact that surely Gregory's fingers could feel the softness of his jaw, surely if the Hufflepuff opened his eyes he'd flinch away. As it was, he did his best to sit still, not passive per say but content with whatever Gregory was willing to give him. He didn't know what to do with his hands and ended up clenching them to keep from grabbing the Hufflepuff and locking the two of them together.

Greg pulled away far too soon, blushing and snatching his hands back. "Sorry!"

Mycroft sighed imperceptibly, eyes darting away from Greg's face as he regulated his breathing and counted the beats of his pulse, waiting for it to slow. 'Sorry' meant 'sorry, but I have to stop now. You're not attractive enough to go any farther.' He managed a smile for Gregory. "It's quite alright,"

"So, um-" Greg moved away, bumping into the girl on his other side, who was starting to leave. "Sorry," he apologized quickly to her, and she smiled down at him. "So I put my name in the Goblet of Fire," Greg offered by way of conversation as he and Mycroft stood to leave with the rest of the crowd.

Mycroft stilled for half a moment and then replied smoothly, "I thought you might,"

"There's just no surprising you, is there?" Greg chuckled, trying to diffuse the tension.

"Afraid not," Mycroft said, smiling back. "Are you excited?"

Greg shot him an amused look. "As if you don't already know." They were at the end of the column of students returning to the castle, the celebrating Gryffindors in the lead, and Greg walked with his hands buried in his pockets. This was fairly unusual, and Mycroft's face fell slightly, knowing Greg was avoiding contact. He put his own hands into his pockets, but it was uncomfortable to have his hands rubbing against his thighs so he crossed his arms instead.

"I was going to let you talk about it," Mycroft explained, trying to smile.

Greg laughed. "You're perfect, you know that?"

_Hardly_.

Continuing before Mycroft had a chance to reply, Greg said, "I guess I'm excited, but I'm also kind of nervous. I think I could do it, but now that I've put my name in I can't help wondering if I shouldn't have. You know?"

"I do." He knew Greg wasn't done talking, but the thing to do was show he was paying attention, provide responses that didn't lead away from the topic so that Greg could continue.

"I don't know if I'm qualified," Greg admitted sheepishly. "It should be someone like you or Sherlock, but I knew neither of you were going to do it, and… well, I didn't think Sherlock would _let_ John put his name in," he laughed. "I guess I thought it might be fun to do the Tasks, and I don't want Moriarty to get it, so…"

"You're perfectly qualified, Gregory." Mycroft found himself nearly floundering. What does one say when someone else doesn't see their own worth? "You're- more than qualified. Transfiguration and Charms are nearly second-nature to you, you're a quick study and your reaction time is brilliant," He didn't know what else to say, wasn't sure what to do in the way of support. He thought what everyone else would do. It was only a moment's pause before he slipped his hand softly through Greg's bent arm. "I have complete confidence in you," He smiled gently as Gregory looked at him.

"Thanks, Myc," His voice was soft and his eyes were too, and then he blinked and cleared his throat. "So- er- shall we go see your brother then?"

\

"A fractured ankle, a splintered shin on the opposite side, sprained wrist, bruised to high heaven and three cracked ribs. You got off easily, if you ask me, riding a bludger and falling off." Healer Smallwood listed Sherlock's injuries, and John winced at each one. The Ravenclaw had only been trying to keep the bludger away from him. They'd been moved to the Hospital Wing immediately, Healer Smallwood leaving Molly in charge of the medical tent on the edge of the Quidditch pitch. Sherlock's face was drawn now, settled on a bed while Madame Smallwood waved her wand around him.

"I didn't ask. How long until they've healed?" Sherlock asked, appearing even more pale than usual as Madame Smallwood finished her examination of him.

"I'm going to give you something that will put you out overnight, and when you wake up you'll feel much better. Still sore, I should think, but it's been my experience with you that there is no point trying to keep you any longer than is absolutely necessary." She frowned at him sternly.

Sherlock simply nodded and leaned back against his pillow. John found himself at loose ends, wishing he could do something, but Madame Smallwood had Sherlock's injuries under control and could put up well enough with the Ravenclaw's abrupt personality, which he curbed somewhat while around her on the grounds that she would answer his odd medical questions. John fidgeted for a while at Sherlock's bedside, fiddling with the edge of the covers while Madame Smallwood bustled about the Hospital Wing, finding her potions and bandages.

Finally, he thought of something to say. "Er, Sherlock, mate... Thanks for doing that. I mean, the game, and without you they had no chance, and I would've been in some trouble-" Rogue bludgers could be truly nasty business; one year a Chaser for the Chudley Cannons had been killed by a bludger that took a liking to the back of his head. It had only been second year, but Sherlock had deduced the culprit and the motives. The guilty referee was serving time in Azkaban.

"'S fine," Sherlock said. "Hope Mycroft can get hold of it. Glad I immobilized it." His eyes drifted shut.

"Why did you do that? You could have cast Arresto Momentum and caught yourself, but you didn't. You stopped the bludger instead, and now look where you are,"

"Don't." Sherlock waved a hand loosely, not opening his eyes. "Obvious why."

John took this as a dismissal, standing up with an awkward, confused nod. "Well, then," he cleared his throat. "I guess I'll just be, um-"

"You don't have to." Sherlock's voice was so quiet that John almost didn't hear him, but when he looked down the brunet's eyes were open again, though not actually watching him- more just looking off into a corner adjacent to John, who sat back down.

"Don't have to…?"

"Go." Sherlock closed his eyes firmly. John thought he might have turned away if it weren't for the cracked bones, and he winced at the pain the Ravenclaw must be in.

"Okay, then. I won't. I'll stay right here." He settled back in the chair, feeling even more awkward and useless than before. What was he supposed to do? Just sit here? He reached for the bedcover again, just for something to occupy his hands, and he thought he saw Sherlock's hand move toward his in return but told himself sternly that it was either his imagination or a gesture brought on by some instance of pain and in _no way_ was it an aborted motion toward hand-holding. Because that would be ridiculous. Because they hadn't even properly talked in ages, because Sherlock spent all his time with Jim and Irene, and because the latest gossip was about Sherlock and Janine, of all people. So John would just be here, fiddling with the bedcovers, and in _no way_ thinking about what if Sherlock had wanted to hold his hand. At all. Because that would be ridiculous.

"I'm bored, John." Sherlock told him as Healer Smallwood set a glass on his bedside table. "Talk to me until I fall asleep." He drained the glass and set it down again, still refusing to look John in the face. With a sick swoop in his stomach, the Gryffindor hoped that Sherlock didn't blame him for the injuries he'd sustained.

He cleared his throat. "All right, yeah. What should I- well…" And even though he knew it would bore Sherlock, even though the Ravenclaw had heard these stories before, nothing happened to John and for whatever reason he couldn't bring himself to talk about Mari to Sherlock, so he started to tell his friend a story from his childhood, when Harry went to Hogwarts and he was stuck at home. "One time, Sherlock, Harry mailed me a picture and it moved. It was the first time I'd seen one, and I showed it to mum and she wanted to write Harry and make sure she wasn't learning some kind of satanic crap at school, because she thought that the people were actually trapped inside the photo. I'm telling you, mate, you're lucky to have grown up in a pureblood family. No one to be disturbed by little things like that or weird relatives to make excuses to when you leave all year. Another time, the year before I started, she wrote me this really long letter about a complete prat who was in her Charms class and answered every question and then showed everyone up with his wandwork." He snorted. "Harry _hated_ him, she was so pissed when I told her your name the first time, accused me of defecting and I didn't understand until I realized that prat in her class was your older brother," John laughed at the memory, reading pages of Harry's scrawl, wondering what kind of a know-it-all could possibly have annoyed her so much and being worried that everyone at Hogwarts would be like that. He cast a look at Sherlock that he refused to describe as fond, only to see that the brunet was fast asleep, face relaxed and lips parted slightly.

"He'll be out for hours, dear, there's no reason to stay if you have anything else to do," Madame Smallwood told him, whisking the empty glass away from Sherlock's bedside.

"Thanks, but," John cleared his throat and refused to meet her eyes, looking at Sherlock instead. "I think I'll stay a while, if I'm not in the way?"

"Of course you're not." She smiled kindly at him and returned to her office.

He sat quietly, not thinking of anything, looking at Sherlock but not very closely, more like he was spacing off and happened to have fixated on that pale face under his mop of dark curls.

John looked up when the door opened an indeterminate amount of time later. "He's asleep." he informed Sherlock's elder brother, who entered behind Greg.

"Oh, good. His conversation is incredibly dull when he's injured." Nevertheless, Mycroft took a seat on the other side of Sherlock's bed, and Greg drew one up beside that. John ignored the snotty elder Holmes, looking instead at Greg. "So how'd the match end up, then?"

Greg shook his head. "I'd have said they had no chance without you, but without Sherlock Ravenclaw got crushed. I don't think they realize just how much they count on him, even if they want to hit him with langlock most days." He laughed halfheartedly, sighing instead.

"Well, you got what you wanted then, Gryffindor win," John smiled, ignoring the sudden discomfort of both of the elder boys. "Sorry I couldn't be there to see it," he continued, not wanting to sit silently in the sudden atmosphere of tension.

"There wasn't much to see, honestly. After you left it all went sort of to pieces. Sebastian headbutted a Chaser, god knows why, and then with four players missing to begin with there was that bludger suspended in midair partway down the pitch, which wasn't the easiest thing to avoid, and no one had any strategy anymore with both team captains gone… I think everyone was happy when it was over, regardless of who actually won." Greg shrugged.

John sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. "I know why. Sebastian headbutted a Chaser, I mean. He's all pissed because Jim did something or other." He sighed.

"Sebastian Moran would do well not to associate with Moriarty any longer. The boy is imbalanced."

"No shit," John answered Mycroft with a snort. "Why is everyone gay?"

"What?" Lestrade's smile was one of those that challenged someone to repeat what they'd just said. The sort of smile that meant you were really fucking stupid.

John backpedaled. "Sorry, that came out weird- too abrupt. I don't mean- well. It's fine, obviously. It's all fine. It just feels like everyone I know is gay. All we ever talk about is Seb dating Jim and Janine and Irene and- well, you know." He finished lamely.

Lestrade shrugged very slightly. "Most of them are probably experimenting, some are bisexual, several simply don't care, and basically life is just mad." He laughed tightly, casting an odd look at John, who shut up before he accidentally bit off and swallowed his foot.

The three of them lapsed into awkward silence, looking at Sherlock with various expressions mostly to avoid looking at each other.

\

"Congratulations on the victory," It was a slow, soft voice that came from around the corner, and Sebastian's hands curled into fists.

"I don't wanna talk to you, Jim."

Jim fell into step beside him anyway, his voice still a gentle offering. "Tiger, _baby_,"

"Baby?" Seb interrupted incredulously. "Since when do you call me _baby_?"

"Since I made a mistake," He took one of the Keeper's hands, but that wasn't what stopped Sebastian short.

"Did I hear you right? James never-ever-wrong Moriarty _made a mistake_? And I suppose you want me to clean it up for you?"

Jim looked up at him, his dark eyes soft beneath his fine brows. His lips were drawn into a sincere frown. "No, Seb- I made a mistake. It was about you. I was trying to get Holmes to do something and I timed it wrong. I didn't know you'd be there. And when I realized you were, I thought you'd know I was just manipulating him. Like Irene does."

"Like _Irene_ does," Sebastian interrupted Jim's pleadingly apologetic tone with a sneer, not wanting his resolute anger to be washed away so easily by the warmth of Jim's hands on his own and the gentleness of the shorter boy's eyes. "And that goes _so_ well for her."

Flinching slightly, Jim apologized. "Listen, Tiger, I'm sorry. I thought I could do it right, but I messed up. And then I was worried about you, and I messed it up even worse. And he's not going to be of any use now, but that doesn't matter. All that matters is- that you know I love you." The last bit was spoken quietly, and Jim looked down momentarily, his eyes flickering back up shyly.

Sebastian was speechless for a moment, raw emotions crashing around in his chest. The first was joy, sheer pounding joy that Jim loved him, would admit it, said that Sherlock Holmes didn't matter because of it. The second was confusion; Jim never opened himself up, never laid his feelings bare. Most people thought that meant he didn't have any, that he was a psychopath or a sociopath or whichever '-path' operated on a self-serving basis like Jim seemed to do. Sebastian had always thought they were wrong, though sometimes he questioned that, questioned his own certainty. The third was anger. He was angry at Jim, certainly, and angry at Sherlock and at Irene and now angry at himself too because his frustration with the Slytherin boy was slipping away, unable to be grasped by fingers that were clasped in Jim's hands.

"I love you too, Jim."


	7. The Choosing of the Champions

"Good morning, John!"

John snorted awake and rolled over, rubbing his eyes as he shoved back the curtains of his four-poster. "Morning," He yawned.

"Hey John, why can't melons get married?" Sebastian grinned widely, barely managing to stifle his preemptive laughter at his own joke.

"Uhh." John yawned again, still making no move to sit up.

"Because they cantaloupe." Seb barked out a laugh. "Get it?"

John smiled blearily. "I got it. What's got you so cheerful, then?"

"Jim's taking me into the Forest today!" Sebastian smiled cheerfully as he tied his scarf. "He says we're going to have a picnic!"

"Don't we have classes today?" John yawned, sitting up.

Sebastian laughed happily at him. "Well, you do, but Jim and I are skipping. He says it's alright since it's Halloween and we only get that once a year. He says he's got a surprise for me for the holiday." He nearly bounced on his toes, in high spirits. Jim had been paying him more attention than ever, and while something in the back of Seb's mind told him that it wasn't a good idea to get so dependent or involved, he was too busy listening to the part of him that had been hoarding every bit of affection Jim had displayed toward him over the years.

John had come fully awake now, and had a look on his face that Sebastian didn't like. "Seb, mate…"

"What?" He crossed his arms defensively, squaring his shoulders to intimidate his diminutive dorm mate. Jim had started telling him fourth year when he got his growth spurt that he'd be really daunting if he wanted to be.

"You don't think you're… I dunno. Nevermind. Just- yeah." John stood up, shaking his head, and began to dress for the day. He wasn't scared, that wasn't how people stopped talking when they were scared. Sebastian deflated a bit, angry.

He scowled. Fine. "See you later, John." _Ruin my morning_. _See if I share what I'm excited about with __**you**__ again._

"Bye, Seb."

\

Lestrade found himself in the middle of a tide of anticipation as he wandered to the Great Hall for breakfast. He knew Mycroft was out patrolling the grounds, and felt bad for his boyfriend out in the cold, but he wished the Ravenclaw were with him for selfish reasons too. Everyone around him was chattering obnoxiously about the Tournament, placing last minute bets and picking favorites, laughing over what they would do if they were competing. There was lighthearted speculation on the nature of the Tasks, jokes about dragons and sphinxes and gryphons. These jokes were not at all funny to Greg, who felt like he might vomit even _considering_ confronting some of the beasts his imaginative classmates were conjuring.

"Are you okay?" Shy, pastel-painted fingertips brushed his arm, and he turned to face Molly Hooper.

"Morning, Molls. Not really." He tried a smile but found that it felt as though he'd stuck a greasy pre-wrapped cheese slice on his face. "How're you?"

Molly gave him an encouraging smile even as he allowed his own to drop off. "I'm not the one who put my name in the Goblet of Fire, but I'm fine. Thanks. Is there anything I can do?"

"Um," Greg blew out his breath. She was nice, so nice, but she wasn't who he really wanted to talk to right now. Then again, he didn't really want to be alone at the moment, either. "Could you maybe talk to me for a bit? I'm not feeling much for conversation, but I'd like to- er- hang out I guess," He finished lamely, biting his lip at the odd request.

"Sure," Molly agreed easily as they entered the Great Hall. "What would you like me to talk about?"

Greg laughed humorlessly. "Anything but the Tournament. Uh."

"Hi, Greg!" Anything more he would have said was cut across by their fellow Hufflepuff, Ella.

"Oh, hey." He replied, trying to apologize to Molly with his eyes as he turned to smile for the other sixth-year girl.

"You put your name in, right?"

He shrugged as if it wasn't a big deal. "Yeah,"

Her eyes widened a little and she looked up at him with a smile. "Wow. Well, good luck," The smile turned flirtatious for a moment as she backed off, acknowledging Molly with a nod.

"Sorry, er… How've things been for you?" Greg asked as they sat down.

"Oh, fine." Molly said, busying herself with breakfast. "Nothing very interesting, honestly, we've been getting the Hospital Wing ready for the Tournament and I've gotten to practice patching up a few of the foreign students. They don't know about things like the vanishing step, or the Whomping Willow, or Peeves. Sally's been 'round a lot… Erm…" She pushed her hair to one side of her head and fiddled with it, combing her fingers through the brown strands. Greg found the repetitive movement oddly mesmerizing. "Oh! I got a letter from Healer Mortimer!" Molly's smile was dazzling, and she continued excitedly, "She said she admired the fact that I already know what I want to do, and she thinks it's good that I'm helping out in the Hospital Wing, and she told me that if I'm ever in the area I ought to come by St. Mungo's for tea and she'll give me a tour!" She was positively glowing, and Greg couldn't help but smile even through his own queasy dread.

"That's wonderful, Molly! She'll love you,"

"Thanks, I hope so, I'm so nervous; I was thinking I'd write her and ask if it was all right for me to come by over the holidays, I'd love to get a tour from her. She's so clever and I'd love to know what she's working on and all. Oh! I ought to thank Mycroft for giving her my name, I haven't done it yet," She frowned at herself. "But then I only got the letter a day or two ago and I've been busy with homework and the Hospital Wing and I never really see him anyway- but I'm sure I'll run into him." She looked around the hall as if mention of Mycroft's name might have summoned him. "Is he on patrol this morning?"

"Mm." Greg nodded, looking at his empty plate and wishing Mycroft were there. He always knew what to say.

"Greg, hey there,"

"Oh, hey, Sarah." He smiled.

She grinned back. "Good luck today,"

"Thanks,"

"And you know, if you get it- I'll be around. Or if you need a consolation prize- I'll be around." She left with a wink.

"Wow," Molly said disapprovingly, eyebrows rising and falling rapidly.

Greg just dropped his head into his hands.

"I'm sorry, I wish he were here." Molly said consolingly. "Hold on, does it have to be Head Boy patrolling?"

"I don't know, I know Sherlock, Irene, and Powers are on patrol too. It wasn't my rotation though, and Mycroft said I ought to not 'burden myself,'" He looked up and rolled his eyes halfheartedly.

"Bye, Greg!" Molly jumped up and raced off.

"Oh… bye…" He murmured, rubbing his sweaty hands on his trousers, not giving her departure much thought as he watched Professor Dimmock magick a jack-o'-lantern into the air for the feast that evening.

\

"Hullo, Mycroft," Molly Hooper's bright voice caught up with him halfway along the border of the Forbidden Forest. Mycroft had his hands stuffed in his pockets and his collar turned up, but tried to walk as though he wasn't cold at all. It wouldn't do to appear vulnerable to something so commonplace as weather.

"Good morning, Miss Hooper. What brings you out here?" He asked politely, continuing to scan the tree line. There was oddly thick mist rolling from the center of the forest, but it dissipated before it reached the edge, blending into the foggy air all around. All in all, that was the most interesting thing happening this morning.

Molly smiled happily up at him, and he could tell she had a surprise planned for him. He hoped it was nothing too frivolous, but she didn't seem like the type to overindulge particularly. "Well, I wanted to thank you for writing about me to Healer Mortimer."

That wasn't all she had to say, but Mycroft responded anyway, waving his hand in polite dismissal without changing his facial expression. "Of course. She was interested in someone as hardworking as you are, I assume?"

Molly blushed. "She- she was, yes, and I just wanted to say thank you for putting us in touch." She looked down, then back up again with a mischievous smile. "And I wanted to tell you that I'm here to relieve you. Go inside and find Greg, he's pretty nervous. He could use you. Patrol's my treat."

"I-" _That_ was a good surprise. Mycroft stifled any duty-driven protests he might have made, reasoning that Molly was a prefect and could handle the _nothing_ that was currently in progress. "Thank you, Molly." He offered her a small smile.

"Don't mention it," She waved him toward the castle good-humoredly. "Go on then,"

\

Greg stared at his empty plate. He was worried, and not thinking of anything in particular. He knew he ought to be doing something- studying or something. But, _eh, another time. Maybe_.

"Hello, Gregory. May I join you?"

Greg's head jerked up, a relieved smile spreading across his face. "Mycroft! Come here, yeah," He moved down the bench a bit to make room. "I thought you were patrolling?" He took the redhead's hand as he sat, moving as close as he dared. The way he felt at the moment, climbing into Mycroft's lap, putting his head on the Ravenclaw's shoulder and ignoring the world- maybe even sleeping for a bit- sounded like a damn good idea, but he knew his asexual boyfriend would never be comfortable having so much human draped over him. At some point Greg was really going to have to work around his awkwardness and ask exactly what he was allowed to do, so he knew, but it seemed so unromantic to not be able to simply know what his boyfriend wanted, unromantic to have to ask. And anyway, today he was in absolutely no shape for any sort of potentially embarrassing or disappointing conversations. So he just pressed their legs together and twined his fingers as securely through Mycroft's as he could.

"Molly Hooper came to relieve me," Mycroft said, smiling slightly and squeezing Greg's hand.

Suddenly, her departure didn't seem all that random. "Oh, makes sense. I wondered where she was off to." He smiled tiredly. "How are you this morning?"

"That's not important at the moment, the question is; how are _you_? Have you eaten?"

Greg answered sheepishly. "No, I sort of… forgot."

"No matter." Mycroft grabbed toast and slid it on Greg's plate followed by a piece of fruit, efficiently pouring the Hufflepuff some juice with the other hand. "There."

"You're perfect," Greg beamed, kissing Mycroft's cheek and catching the younger boy's hand in his own again. He was so lucky to have Mycroft; everything was so much better in the presence of his ultra-capable boyfriend. "How was patrol?"

Suddenly Archie, the young Hufflepuff Seeker, popped up behind Mycroft, speaking without checking if he was interrupting. "Hey Greg! Good luck tonight!"

"Thank you, Archie." He tried to use the same half-diplomatic half-brotherly smile he pulled on the kid during Quidditch practice, but it felt awfully forced. Archie didn't seem to notice, scampering off with a bright smile.

"Anyway. Sorry. How was patrol?" Greg wanted to lean on Mycroft more, but he thought that if he did he'd probably tip them both over.

"Nothing to write home about. Nothing to write about, period. In fact, if I were Sherlock I'd probably delete it. No students around, no professors outdoors, no rampaging creatures, and the only footprints in or out of the Forest were old and I suspect belonged to my brother and John." He sighed almost imperceptibly and Greg couldn't help but laugh at the resigned look crossing his face.

"They're fine, come on, I bet they just found something interesting. Or maybe a dead thing Sherlock wanted to poke at, you never know." He took a bite of toast, realizing now how hungry he actually was.

"That is _not_ reassuring, Gregory," Mycroft told him, but the corner of his mouth was pulling up in a slight smile. Mycroft was the only one who called him Gregory. It was nice, it felt special.

Greg smiled back cheekily. "Sorry,"

"Are you ready for the Choosing of the Champions?" Mycroft asked, watching him with a particularly piercing gaze.

"No," Greg exhaled shakily, dropping his toast as aggressively as it was possible to drop toast, nerves surging back to the surface. "_What_ I was thinking, putting my name in…"

Unexpectedly, Mycroft surged forward, wrapping Gregory in the most reassuring hug he'd ever experienced. It was so comfortable, so instantly calming to have his face cradled against Mycroft's neck, the Ravenclaw's arms holding him securely, that Greg breathed out a gentle sigh and very nearly nestled into his boyfriend's arms. "Thank you," He muttered, hugging back, wondering how long Mycroft would be able to hold out. He knew that the other boy didn't like contact, and Greg was grateful that he was being hugged today. He needed it.

"Of course," Mycroft squeezed him a bit tighter for a moment, and Greg wished he knew a spell to make time stop. Just for a little bit, or maybe a day. Or two.

He didn't know what to say, or if there was any way he could ask Mycroft to never let him go that didn't sound incredibly selfish, so he took the high road. "I feel much better," He said, pushing a smile onto his face as he leaned out of the hug, allowing Mycroft to reenter his own comfort zone.

"Good," Myc replied, and then they looked at each other awkwardly for a moment, Greg wondering what was going on in Mycroft's head and hoping he could have another hug like that sometime. Owl post streamed in, breaking the slight tension between them.

Greg's parents had written him, and so had his cousin, who worked in the Ministry of Magic department of Mysteries. She knew about the Tournament, of course, and wrote him a rambling letter that began by joking about whether he'd put his name in and ended with advice on everything from magical herbs he'd never heard of to something called a Wrackspurt. "Myc, do you know what this is?" He tilted the letter- which thoughtfully included a drawing- for Mycroft to look at.

"Hm?" The redhead looked up from _Transfiguration Today_, peering over at Greg's letter. "Oh, a Wrackspurt. There's never been any evidence to prove that they exist. But then, there's never been any to contradict their existence, either." He went back to whatever he was reading about, flipping through the pages at an impressive rate. Greg could remember watching him read for the first time and thinking that he wasn't actually taking in any of the information until Mycroft repeated three pages back to him verbatim.

He sighed down at his cousin's letter, pushing it back into the envelope it came in and putting the small pile of encouragement from home into his bag. "What're you reading?" He asked, knees beginning to bounce nervously. He wanted it to be evening already.

"Sherlock's article. Some of this is so _obvious_, I'm amazed they wanted him to write it down." He sniffed, flipping to a new article in the journal as he finished his little brother's.

Greg bumped Myc's arm with his own. "Shut up, you're proud of him." He smiled. "When's _your_ next article, then?"

"Don't get excited, Gregory; it's just in the _Daily Prophet_. They wanted something about the foreign guests, without having to send a reporter until the Tasks actually start. It's exceedingly dull." Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"_Don't get excited_, Merlin's beard." Greg repeated in mock-exasperation. "I'm proud of you, you're amazing. Do you know how many students have been asked for articles? Sure some have submitted, but _the Prophet_- and these other things- _asked_ you." He kissed Mycroft's cheek carefully, and leaned away hurriedly as a blush spread over his boyfriend's porcelain skin. "I'm proud of you."

Mycroft smiled at him. "Thank you, Gregory."

Greg stared hopelessly at him for a moment, and then tore his attention away- kicking and screaming- from Mycroft's face, looking down hurriedly and clearing his throat. "Uh- everyone's going to class, d'you think we should get going too?"

"Probably a good idea," Mycroft replied, sweeping his collection of new journals elegantly into his book bag.

Greg stood reluctantly. _No, don't agree with me, I want to stay here. I can if you say it's okay. You're always right. Let's just ignore class and the Tournament and just sit here._ "You're gonna sneak those under the desk, aren't you?" He teased Myc, knowing full well that the (adorably pompous) Head Boy would never do anything in class that could be counted as off-task.

Mycroft played along as Greg took his hand, however, deadpanning with a raised eyebrow; "Indeed. I doubt I'll pay any attention at all."

"Okay then, Spock," Greg chuckled, bumping his shoulder against the Ravenclaw's. "Hey, we've got Charms today, right?"

"Yes, we do. The first class after lunch."

"Excellent," Greg smiled, and they walked in silence until reaching the Muggle Studies classroom.

"See you at lunch then, yeah?"

"Yes, you will," Myc answered, leaning forward for a perfunctory kiss. Greg loved mornings when Mycroft walked him to class; the Ravenclaw never failed to kiss him before leaving. He probably thought it was some obligatory action when dating, and Greg wasn't going to update that idea. It was selfish of him to want a kiss from Mycroft every day, but there it was.

"Have fun in History of Magic!" He grinned, ducking into the Muggle Studies classroom behind a Gryffindor girl.

\

It was very cold outside, a fog had settled over the grounds, and trees were losing the last of their leaves. _In short, perfect Halloween weather_, Molly thought. Not so much perfect weather for not having grabbed a warmer cloak though. Still, she was glad she'd done this- it was nice to just walk, and there was really nothing going on. Nothing that required Mycroft's attention more than Greg did, today. She checked her watch and began circling back toward the castle so that she wouldn't be late for class._ I wonder if Greg really will get picked. That'd be so great. Stressful, too, but at least Hogwarts would have a capable contender and a shot at winning. _She noticed a pair of students leaning against a wall of the castle laughing, one of them in Beauxbatons blue.

"John, Mari," She greeted with a smile as she approached them. "Sorry to interrupt, but class will be starting soon and you might want to get going."

"Sure, 'course," John agreed with a polite smile at her, and he and Mari walked off in tandem. He bent his head down and she laughed. Molly thought for a moment what a good pair they made, and then began circling around the wall in search of other stragglers.

"Hello Molly; I was looking for you," Sherlock's deep voice surprised her as she rounded a corner, and she jumped.

"Oh, hi Sherlock," She smiled, then looked him over and quickly stopped. He was a mess again, a split lip and blacked eye contrasting with his pale skin, the red on his face seeming all the more vibrant against his dark hair and light eyes. "Oh no! Sherlock, are you okay?" She resisted the urge to dab at his face, seeing that his scrapes were no longer bleeding anyway. "I mean- I can see you're not okay, but-"

Sherlock's mouth moved just enough to form a halfhearted smile. "I'm fine." He said quietly.

"What happened?" Molly turned with him and began walking back to the castle. "Can I take you to the Hospital Wing?"

"I have class, I'll come by afterward." He avoided her eyes now.

"Promise?"

"I promise."

"Will you at least tell me who it was?"

"It was no one, Molly, don't worry. I'm sorry I didn't fix it up better myself."

"You've already fixed some of it?" Really worried now, Molly renewed her scrutiny of Sherlock. He obligingly held out his hands so she could see the newly-healed skin on his knuckles and palms.

"Hands, nose. Fine now though, really." He stopped talking and Molly suspected he wouldn't start again, though she wished he'd say who'd beaten him up this time, and why- he'd really had a rough time of it in his first two or three years here, but slowly his tormenters had left or mysteriously changed their minds about him- Molly thought Mycroft might've had something to do with that, though he never said.

"Well, come by the Hospital Wing after class and I'll get you all fixed up, okay?"

"Thank you." It was quiet, but it made Molly smile nonetheless.

"Of course." He started to hurry away from her. She tried to marshal her authority voice, the one she used on the younger kids when they were doing something prohibited and they knew it. "And Sherlock, you better be ready to tell me who did that!"

\

History of Magic was as it ever was; a fascinating subject in and of itself but with very little direct application. One did not often adapt a goblin riot to everyday life, though of course it was necessary to learn from the past. History of Magic with Gryffindors was an interesting experience; Mycroft had often found that of all the Houses, Gryffindors as a rule paid the least attention. Interestingly, Slytherins were their closest competition; though Mycroft suspected that the two Houses had different motivations for their lack of interest, the end result was the same. Fascinating how often that happened between them.

A fissure of hunger ran through Mycroft's stomach, rumbling quietly. He did his best not to look humiliated or check whether anyone was looking at him, instead dipping his quill into his ink well and continuing to take notes as Professor Lin lectured. She was talking about the fragility of things again, which meant she was leading up to a revolution, but Mycroft was hardly listening. Hardly listening still meant he'd have the most thorough understanding and meticulous notes of anyone, which seemed less than fair as he couldn't help but be distracted by his empty stomach and thoughts of food.

How very hypocritical he had been at breakfast, coaxing Greg into eating while touching nothing himself. He ignored his body, paying attention only to Professor Lin. Her soft, measured voice made for a bearable lecture, though it also encouraged relaxation and wandering thoughts.

"In the nineteen twenties, of course, it became much easier to conceal reports of escaped dragons, as reports of rogue airplanes could be forged. Often, muggles found this much more believable than the fact of dragons, however…" Professor Lin continued, but Mycroft relegated the lecture to the back of his mind, worried about Gregory, Sherlock, and Moriarty. There was nothing he could do about Gregory's possibly becoming Champion, short of sabotaging the Goblet of Fire, so he focused on what the best move concerning Moriarty was. They'd gotten quite close to gaining his confidence, but Sherlock –understandably, if unfortunately- hadn't been inclined to continue walking the path that led to knowledge of Moriarty's plans. Mycroft had to admit that he was somewhat glad for this fact, as he'd been worried that his younger brother might become more susceptible to the intrigues of the Slytherin group now that John Watson had a more serious relationship. But since that was not the case, and since they needed a better plan than counting on the affections (or what passed as such) of Moriarty, Mycroft set his mind to work.

\

"Someone doesn't love you," Irene slipped into a seat beside Sherlock. "Saw you this morning. You've looked prettier, my dear. Though I suspect they may've cut themselves on your cheekbones, hmm?" She laughed at her own joke, and Janine giggled too, sitting beside her casually as Sherlock glanced up.

"Well, I can confirm half of that." He said offhandedly, refusing to look at her.

"Which half?" Janine asked lightheartedly. Sherlock spared her a glance. She was always different around Irene than she was around him, but today there was a closer balance. She'd slept well, gotten back an essay with good marks. Jim hadn't spoken to her all day but it wasn't unexpected, Irene was paying her attention. Letter from home about her cat. In short, she was in a good mood and not competing for Irene's wayward affections.

"Which class was it?" He asked, changing the subject.

"Which class was what?" Irene replied.

"Not you. Janine. What class was it that you got the essay back in?"

She regarded him with a tilt of her head and a bit of a smile. "Charms."

"Well done." He wasn't in the mood for censored conversation.

"How'd you know?"

He jerked his head noncommittally. "Simple enough. You'd worked hard for a few days, then worried for a few, now you're not worried and there's only one new roll of parchment in your bag, something you've seen before or you would've been more careful about shoving it in- essay- and it's not flattened inside a textbook so you're not ashamed of it. Rather proud actually."

"Wow." Janine smiled brightly at him, and Sherlock felt as though it was hardly an effort to smile back. Between them, Irene sat with her seductive smile frozen in place.

"Do you think I'll get it?" Irene asked in a sultry voice, laying one hand on each of their legs. Janine moved closer to Irene while Sherlock tensed, disliking even the sight of her Slytherin green fingernails on his knee.

"Get what?" Janine asked, brushing at a strand of hair that had escaped Irene's bun.

Irene looked Sherlock over and gave his knee a squeeze with a wink before releasing him and turning- mercifully- to look at Janine. "The Champion's spot."

"I think you could," Janine answered. Sherlock remained silent. Mycroft would kill him if he messed up whatever rapport he had with Irene, especially now that Jim didn't seem to be interested in him anymore. Well, _didn't seem to be_ might be understating it, if the imprints Moran's knuckles had left were anything to go by.

He couldn't wait for the evening to come.

\

Mycroft was supposed to be shepherding everyone to the Great Hall, checking this wing of the castle for stragglers. There were none, of course; no one wanted to miss the choosing of the Champions. He opened a door to the last empty classroom and looked around, ready to go to the Great Hall and find Gregory, wish him good luck before the selection of Champions. Mycroft was nervous; if Greg got it, he'd have to watch the Hufflepuff go through a series of possibly death-defying challenges. He wanted to be in the Great Hall, near the brunet, even though logically that would do no good.

Greg was here, however, perched jauntily on a desk with his feet swinging. "Finally! I was waiting for you," He hopped down and went to Mycroft's side with a grin.

"Hello, Gregory," Mycroft gave a surprised smile.

"Finished with Head Boy duties?"

"Just now; this is the last classroom I had to check," He stood back to allow Greg to precede him out the doorway, pulling it shut behind them. "Everyone ought to be waiting in the Great Hall for the choosing of the Champions. Are you ready?"

"Kiss me for good luck?" Greg asked softly, playful light in his eyes.

Mycroft's brain stumbled to a halt and then launched into a whirlwind debate over whether or not that was a good idea. "Luck does not exist." He countered, barely standing his ground when Greg took a step closer, into his personal space.

"Come on, kiss me…" Greg's voice was more tentative now, but he pressed his lips lightly to the corner of Mycroft's mouth, moving even closer, so that their chests brushed.

The Ravenclaw inhaled sharply. "There is no such thing as luck. If you get the Championship, it will be because you have earned it." His eyes darted across Greg's face, looking for some evidence of a spell or potion that might explain the sudden desire for kissing. Finding nothing but nervousness and restraint beneath the playful bravado, his hands shyly found Greg's hips, resting softly, unsure.

"Humor me," Greg whispered against Mycroft's skin. The redhead tried not to whimper, but his breath stuttered over his lips. He pressed them together and kissed Greg, who stood happily against Mycroft. He was wondering whether he'd be permitted to deepen the kiss when he heard someone clear their throat behind them.

"Sorry," Molly Hooper's sweet voice was shy. "But everyone else's already in the Great Hall, you probably want to be there in case Greg gets his name drawn," She smiled bashfully and continued through the empty corridor on her way from the Hospital Wing to the Great Hall.

Greg smiled, turning to follow her and reaching back for Mycroft's hand. Gregory's smile rendering him more helpless than he'd already been, Mycroft wondered how much longer he could hold himself back_. Forever. You're lucky he does as much as he does_. He thought the words firmly, chastising himself for wanting anything more than Gregory was willing to give. The brunet looked back and smiled again. _Don't let him see,_ Mycroft told himself, quickly wiping his face blank before smiling back. _He's been generous enough tonight._

They separated upon entering the hall, Greg following Molly to the Hufflepuff table, Mycroft left to slip into his seat beside Sherlock, who looked him over once.

"You're doing it again."

"Doing what, brother mine?" He ran a hand uncomfortably across his hair.

"Pushing him away without even asking if he wants to be close," Sherlock answered. "You know that he's going to end up leaving you because he thinks you don't want him, if you don't do the same to him first."

"Shut up," Mycroft snapped, hands clenched beneath the table.

Sherlock looked wounded for a moment, but quickly settled a mask over his features with a shrug. "Fine."

Headmistress Hudson clapped her hands once, and silence spread. "Hello, everyone, Hogwarts students and guests alike," She spread her hands wide. "Welcome to the Choosing of the Champions! If we could have the Goblet of Fire brought in, please, and after the selection will be dinner- that way you all can have it as festive as you like in here for three hours." She smiled. "After that, I'll insist on bed. Ah, thank you," She said as the Goblet was wheeled into the hall and pushed up to the front, to stand just below the raised platform that held the head table.

\

Every eye in the hall fixed on it, from the teachers, visiting Heads and Ministry judges at the High table to the tiny first year who was eleven but looked eight, craning over the sea of students to see the flames in the Goblet. "In just a few moments, we ought to know the names of the three students who will be competing for the Triwizard Cup," She said, watching the Goblet and waving her wand idly, dimming the light in the Great Hall. The flames in the Goblet stood out, throwing flashing light on everything in its vicinity from the empty plates to the few rings glittering at the High Table. The flames burned red, and seemed for a moment to turn ruby before skipping over the rest of the spectrum and flaring bright blue, sharpening the relief of everything they fell upon. The stark blue light reached every corner of the hall, silhouetting expressions of excitement to anxiety on the faces of every student regardless of what color robes they were wearing. A piece of paper was borne up from the flames, bobbing as though it were a stick floating back to the surface of a river after having been thrown in. Headmistress Hudson caught it delicately between purple-painted fingernails.

"The Durmstrang Champion will be Augustus Magnussen," She read in a clear voice, and there was polite applause from the Hogwarts and Beauxbatons students, while a strange silence seemed to fall over the Durmstrangs, some of whom clapped halfheartedly. The Headmaster looked concerned, his frown lines deepened in the light of the blue flames, but he clapped cordially for his student as the boy in glasses stood, his eyes sweeping the crowd around him. "All right, Augustus, just go through this door, please. You'll be joined in a moment by the other Champions," Headmistress Hudson smiled and swept her arm to indicate a door behind the High Table. Magnussen proceeded through it, and as it closed the cheers died down, everyone waiting in silence for the next name. It was spit from the Goblet a moment later, like a bird bursting from a forest canopy. The Headmistress barely grabbed it from the air, and everyone in the hall leaned forward, holding their breath.

"The Champion from Beauxbatons is… Sophié Chevalier." A roaring cheer went up from the Beauxbatons students, the boy with blue hair shooting a shower of blue sparks over the Ravenclaw table as Sophié, beside him, stood. The Hall echoed with cheers for some time after the door had closed behind her, though the flames of the Goblet burned brighter than ever. Headmistress Hudson held the last paper, expelled from the flames directly into her hands, for a long moment as she waited good-naturedly for the cheers to subside. Hogwarts students throughout the Hall fidgeted, some shushing the cheering students in anticipation of hearing their own Champion.

"And finally, the Hogwarts Champion." She paused, smiling around at the students. Behind her, glances passed up and down the High Table. "Gregory Lestrade!"

\

"Oh, shit. Oh _shit_," Greg knew his eyes were wide, and that he was supposed to be standing, and that everyone was staring at him and that the applause filling the hall sounded like a tsunami crashing onto a rocky shore, but he was dumbfounded as to what to do with what was happening inside. His head was empty, the noise of the hall ricocheting between his ears, and his chest felt strangely hollow around his heart, which seemed to have stopped beating. It was stuffed full of shock, and probably was racing, but he couldn't feel it and for a moment he really considered having Molly stop cheering and take his pulse. He lurched to his feet and stumbled over the bench, smiling as best he could. _This wasn't supposed to be happening, not really_. He hadn't ever seriously considered the possibility that the Cup would choose _him_. He'd tossed his name in so that the Slytherins would have some competition, to impress Mycroft, because he was decent enough at a couple things, because it was cool, any number of things besides feeling himself qualified to perform daring feats of magic in front of the entire school and their visitors.

_Oh, shit_. He was gestured through the same door as the other Champions, and tried to walk confidently as he heard the Headmistress begin speaking to the rest of the crowd and the door shut behind him. He took a deep breath, feeling out of himself, his consciousness sitting in the back of his mind while he walked composedly down a short set of stairs.

"Bonjour!" A bright smile materialized in front of him as his eyes adjusted to yet another change in lighting when he entered a small room with a fireplace, and shining eyes met his. "Mon nom est Sophié,"

"I'm Greg." His voice sounded suave to his own ears, calm and collected. Like he'd expected this to happen. "Nice to meet you." They shook hands briefly, and Greg moved to stand beside the fireplace, nodding at Magnussen, who was sprawled in a chair.

Behind him, the door opened again. "Well, Champions, well done all of you." Their respective Heads of Schools strode in, each one smiling with various degrees of truthfulness. Behind them came the two men from the Ministry.

Greg heard the rules being explained, caught snatches like "Can't back out," "Forbidden to use illegal magic," and "First Task will take place in twenty-four days."

Only after the man had stopped speaking did Greg realize who had been talking; Hans Schmidt from the Department of Magical Games and Sports, who'd brought the Goblet of Fire into the banquet when the other schools arrived. Now the Champions were being dismissed by the other Ministry man, waved on by their Heads of schools. Greg smiled back when Sophié looked at him, trying to look as aware as she did. The other Champion- _Champions, I'm a Champion. Shit_.- Augustus, wasn't smiling like Sophié but he looked just as present in the moment as she did. Greg was fairly certain that if there was a _Priori Incantatem_ for the brain nothing would come out of his past the point he stood up in the Great Hall.

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The party was well underway by the time the new Champions reemerged, but Mycroft was ignoring it. There were plenty of teachers, plenty of prefects. They'd be fine without him for a few hours, not a statement he would make with as much confidence in reference to Gregory. The door opened and the Beauxbatons girl came bouncing out, hurling herself into the arms of her friends, who bore her off to a corner where the others from their school also stood. Magnussen's welcome was less exuberant, more of a kowtowing. Mycroft absently noted that he ought to keep an eye on that one. Finally, Gregory walked out, met with exceedingly loud cheers from the Hogwarts students. Watching the Hufflepuff's face, Mycroft noted a blankness behind his charming features, and something around his eyes that looked suspiciously like a fight-or-flight response.

Walking through the wall of sound and grasping hands as though he were Moses parting the red sea with his broad shoulders, Gregory made a beeline to Mycroft and stopped a half an inch away.

"Gregory…?" Mycroft prompted.

Greg reached up and took Mycroft's face between his hands, holding on to the angles as though he needed an anchor. Obligingly, Mycroft stood still. Greg kissed him firmly, just for a moment, only long enough for Mycroft to feel the senselessness with which Gregory was acting. "Can we go somewhere?" Greg asked, having to very nearly shout over the insane noise of the Hogwarts student body packed tight around them, doing their best to intrude on the moment.

"Of course." He took one of Lestrade's hands away from his face and held it securely, turning to face the mass of exuberance thronging between them and the doorway. He moved his face into the most unapproachable expression he could and set it there as though carving it into stone. Pushing his shoulders back, he cleared a path through the students just as easily as Gregory had- though with an aura of intimidation, rather than charisma.

Gregory followed him almost meekly as Mycroft headed for a secret passage between corridors. He pushed the painting aside and lit the torches along the wall before pulling the portrait back into place. When he turned back, Greg was sitting on the lowest of several steps, staring straight ahead. He sat down carefully beside the shaken Hufflepuff.

"Take a deep breath," Mycroft said, rubbing a careful hand across Gregory's shoulder as he shook where he sat, nearly doubling over as he gripped his own knees.

"Holy shit." Greg exhaled slowly and inhaled as deeply as he could. "Oh, damn it. Shiiiiiiit." he leaned back with another shaky exhale.

"What can I do?" _Don't panic. Dealing with frightened, shocked people cannot possibly be that difficult._

"Oh, god. Just, um, just sit here. Please." Greg's hands moved from his own knees to Mycroft's, holding tightly enough to leave bruises. Mycroft didn't flinch, more than willing to be an anchor if that was what Greg wanted.

"Don't worry." He didn't know what else to say for the moment, waiting for Gregory to choose which impulse to follow. Greg clung to Mycroft's knees, not wanting to let go, but Mycroft could tell that the Hufflepuff might bolt at any moment, though he didn't know what he'd do once alone.

"Can you... Um..." Greg breathed deeply again and sat up straight, flexing his hands on Mycroft's knees. "Okay. Okay. Tell me what to do." He looked into Mycroft's eyes determinedly.

"For the moment, stay calm." Mycroft replied. He wanted to kiss Gregory, proud of his Hufflepuff, hoping a kiss would be calming, but he knew better. If anything, it would only increase Greg's stress. _Calm is the goal_.

"Doing my best." Greg's mouth quirked up. "What do I do about the Tasks?"

"Don't worry, Gregory. We can take care of it."

"You'll help." It was flat, but Mycroft heard the surprised question underneath.

His eyebrows rose. "Of course I'll help. Love. Of course I will." He put his hands gently over Gregory's.

Greg exhaled softly. "Okay," he smiled. "Okay." He turned his hands over to hold Mycroft's. "Thank you."

"Of course." Mycroft couldn't help it any longer, leaning forward quickly and placing a swift kiss on Gregory's cheek. "It's going to be alright. You're more than qualified, and we'll be sure you're prepared. You can do this."

"You really think so."

"Of course," Mycroft smiled a slight bit, trying to be reassuring.

"Thank you," Greg smiled back, and took several more deep breaths.

They sat still, Gregory's hands slowly relinquishing their death-grip on Mycroft's knees, for a good five minutes. Mycroft began assembling a strategy, thumbs rubbing slow circles on the backs of Gregory's hands until the Hufflepuff stood. "Shall we go join the party then?"

_I'd rather stay here with you_. "Yes, of course."

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Author's Note:

Who would you like to see more of?


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